The POW Who Came in from the Cold
by Deana
Summary: Continuation of the episode, 'Swing Shift'. A mission unexpectedly goes wrong, leaving Hogan and an injured Newkirk stranded in the cold, miles away from the stalag...
1. Mission Gone Wrong

**The POW Who Came in From the Cold**  
A Hogan's Heroes story by Deana Lisi

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone from the show, or the thing that I mention at the end of chapter 19, which I don't want to  
say right now or I'll give it away. LOL

Continuation of the season 2 episode, 'Swing Shift'!

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_New rule: never try to sneak out of the stalag with a sick team member._

Hogan winced at the _ffft_ sound that came from Newkirk once again, as they crept through the woods. The Englishman was holding in his sneezes successfully, but couldn't completely prevent all sound. Hogan briefly turned, in time to see Carter give him a handkerchief.

Newkirk nodded his thanks, before wiping his nose, looking miserable.

Hogan sighed noiselessly, before continuing on.

Two days had passed from their successful destroying of the canon factory near Hammelburg, an incident that got Newkirk drafted into the German army when he was impersonating Foreman Mueller, an employee of the plant. He'd actually been assigned as a guard at Stalag Thirteen, and had to hide his face from Klink by pretending to sneeze into a handkerchief every time the colonel looked at him. Hogan had thankfully managed to get him out of it, but later that night, just after Klink was telling the prisoners that no one had ever been able to fool him…Newkirk sneezed. For a second, Hogan had wondered if he had done it on purpose in response to Klink's statement, but the nervous look on Newkirk's face showed that he hadn't. Hogan had quickly herded him back into the barracks, and they'd stood peeking out the door for a while, worried that Klink would realize that Mueller was really Newkirk.

If Klink figured it out, then Newkirk would be implicated in the bombing of the plant…and ultimately Hogan and the others. Their entire operation would be blown, and they'd all face the firing squad. Time passed, and Klink never came…but that didn't mean he wouldn't figure it out the next day.

Hogan and his group of men didn't get much sleep that night.

Somehow, their dear Kommandant apparently never made the connection—or if he did, he dismissed it as impossible—but from that moment on, Newkirk had continued to sneeze.

Oh, the irony…

Minutes later, they reached a tall utility pole. Oddly, there was a metal box halfway up it, with a combination lock on the front. London had radioed them the day before, telling them to find the safe, retrieve the contents, and blow it up. The contents of the safe—London didn't tell them what that was—would then be taken to England by three men that were currently hiding in stalag 13's tunnels.

All in a day's work.

Newkirk went _ffft_ again, tried to sniff quietly, and started climbing the pole, with Carter climbing the other side.

Hogan watched them go, periodically scanning the landscape for any sign of danger.

Newkirk reached the safe and studied the lock, twisting the dial once before taking out his stethoscope and fitting it into his ears one-handed, holding onto the pole with the other arm.

Carter, facing him from the other side of the pole, had his explosives ready.

Hogan gave another noiseless sigh when he saw Newkirk with the stethoscope. He'd hoped the safe would be an easy one to crack, but when had _any_ of their missions been quick and easy?

Newkirk needed both hands free; one to hold the stethoscope against the safe, and the other to turn the dial, so Carter had to grab a fistful of his jacket to keep the Englishman anchored to the pole. He watched as Newkirk listened expertly to the tumblers as he turned the dial.

Hogan walked a few feet away from the pole, searching the terrain. It was freezing, as usual, and he could smell snow in the air. _Hold off until we're done, please?_ he thought to the clouds.

The tumblers inside the safe all gave easily, and with a smile at Carter, Newkirk suddenly opened the door. His smile vanished at what he saw inside…or rather, what he _didn't_ see.

The safe was empty.

"Colonel!" he whispered. "There's nothin' in it!"

"What?" Hogan replied. "Are you sure?"

Carter cranked his neck around the pole, and took the chance of using his flashlight. He blinked with surprise. "He's right! It's empty!"

Newkirk felt around the inside of the safe, as if he thought his eyes were deceiving him. "I don't believe it," he muttered.

Suddenly, the sound of voices split the air. "Wer gibt es? Halt!"

Hogan looked back up at his men. "Blow it up and let's go!"

Carter quickly shut off his flashlight, hoping that it hadn't caught the German patrol's eyes, before reaching over to toss the explosives inside. Newkirk slammed the door shut before they both started to hurriedly descend.

Hogan held his gun ready, as the sound of voices grew louder. "Go!" he said to Carter, who reached the bottom first. He made sure both men were ahead of him before he started to run.

Bullets suddenly started flying, and each man flinched. Running made Newkirk cough, and he didn't bother to try holding it in with all the noise.

The bullets didn't really come that close to them, so Hogan resisted the urge to fire back at the Germans, not wanting to reveal their exact location.

The safe, meanwhile, suddenly went up in a tremendous explosion, the entire pole splitting and falling to the ground. The three POW's thought they were home free, but either the fireball provided one of the Germans with enough light to see, or he'd simply fired a lucky shot, they'd never know.

All Newkirk knew was that he suddenly felt a blinding pain in his left arm, and then he was tumbling down an embankment.

Hogan, behind him, was taken by surprise at Newkirk's sudden cry of pain and unexpected fall, and he reached out to grab him, but was thrown off balance and sent down the embankment with him.

Carter knew none of this, as the bullets started coming closer and he had no choice but to continue running.

Newkirk and Hogan landed heavily at the bottom of the embankment, in a tangle of limbs. Hogan, dazed from the fall but knowing that the Germans might've seen their tumble, threw himself on top of Newkirk to both protect him and prevent him from moving and giving their position away. He could see the glow of flashlights, and hoped that the rough terrain combined with their black clothing would be a good enough cover.

Newkirk made no movement, but Hogan wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. He kept his head down and his body unmoving, waiting for the noise to die down. When it finally did, he lifted his aching head and looked at the Corporal. "Newkirk? You okay?"

He received no answer.

Quickly sitting up, Hogan took out his flashlight, praying that no Germans were looking down the embankment. He shined it towards the other man, and found that a bullet had apparently hit Newkirk's left upper arm.

Hogan inwardly cursed the German's lucky shot.

Quickly, the Colonel checked Newkirk for other injuries sustained in the fall and thankfully found no broken bones. There was a good-sized lump on the back of his head—likely the cause of his unconsciousness—and Hogan sympathized, having cracked his own head a few times during their tumble.

Taking out his handkerchief, Hogan tied it around Newkirk's arm in a meager attempt to stop the bleeding, and unsteadily stood, surveying the terrain. He needed to find a place for the two of them to stay for the night…with Germans prowling around, there was no way he could risk carrying Newkirk back to the stalag.

Sighing, Hogan flipped up his collar, wishing it'd been summer rather than winter. The temperature was below freezing, and though they both wore jackets, they weren't adequate for staying out all night.

Hogan finally spied what seemed to be a rocky outcropping, and he knelt beside his unconscious man again. "Newkirk?" he said, tapping his face. "Wake up, Corporal!"

But the Englishman wouldn't have it, remaining motionless.

Sighing, Hogan crouched behind Newkirk and grabbed him under the arms, dragging him towards the ledge. It was a little further away than he thought, and when he'd almost reached it, he suddenly heard a soft moan.

Immediately, Hogan laid Newkirk back down and knelt beside him, gently putting a hand over his mouth.

Newkirk startled at that and opened his eyes, ready to panic until a flashlight clicked on and he saw Hogan's face above him.

"Shhh," Hogan whispered, removing his hand from Newkirk's mouth and shutting off the flashlight. "We're still outside near the bomb-site. Can you walk?"

Newkirk didn't answer at first; his brain was spinning, his head was aching, and his arm was mercilessly throbbing with each heartbeat. Walk? He couldn't even _think_.

Hogan frowned, concerned. "Newkirk? You with me?"

Hearing his Colonel's voice again cleared some of the groggy fog from Newkirk's brain, and he winced, closing his eyes again. "Y-yeah, guv," he said.

"Come on, let's get you up," Hogan whispered. "There's shelter just over there."

Newkirk let Hogan pull him to his feet where they stood for a minute while he got his bearings. He had to lean on Hogan as they walked—or rather shuffled—over to the ledge, and Hogan helped him crawl under it.

Newkirk couldn't help but groan as he sat back against the rocky wall. His arm felt like it was on fire, and his head was still spinning.

Suddenly, he sneezed, unable to hold it back.

Hogan crawled onto the ledge and winced at the sound, having forgotten all about the Corporal's cold. _Oh great! _he thought. _This is __all__ we need!_

Newkirk closed his eyes tightly and winced, reaching his right hand to his head, the sneeze having painfully jarred it. "Ooooh, blimey…" he shakily mumbled.

Hogan listened for the sound of German guards; desperately praying that no one had heard the ill-timed sneeze. After a minute, he sighed and shined the flashlight at Newkirk's bleeding arm.

The light made Newkirk's headache worse, but he opened his eyes anyway and peered at his injury. "Wonderful," he said. "The bloody Krauts _got_ me."

"They sure did," said Hogan, gently picking up Newkirk's arm so he could look at the back. "The bullet went all the way through."

At the touch, Newkirk's whole body flinched and he gasped, his right hand fisting.

Hogan immediately let go.

Newkirk's face turned sheet-white, and his breathing grew heavy. He looked ready to faint, and couldn't speak for a few seconds. "I think…they _broke_…me ruddy…arm…" he finally gasped.

After seeing what his touch had caused, Hogan was inclined to agree.

They sat on the ledge for a few minutes in silence, while Hogan gave Newkirk a chance to compose himself before he attempted to treat his arm again.

Newkirk abruptly sneezed—more quietly this time—and he fumbled for the handkerchief in his pocket. Wiping his nose, he held his hand to his forehead for a minute, before suddenly opening his eyes and looking at Hogan with a panicked expression. "Colonel! What 'appened ta Andrew?!"

Hogan shook his head. "He was ahead of you and didn't see us fall. The Germans kept chasing him, so he couldn't've stopped even if he wanted to."

"Didn't see us _fall_?"

"How do you think we ended up down _here_?" said Hogan, seeing that Newkirk didn't really notice the 'us'. "When the bullet hit you, you fell down the embankment."

"No wonder me 'ead 'urts," Newkirk said, rubbing his forehead again. He suddenly coughed, using Carter's handkerchief to muffle the sound.

Hogan sighed, reaching for his arm.

Newkirk kept his eyes closed and his body rigid, preparing for the pain that the Colonel had no choice but to inflict. When Hogan removed the blood-soaked handkerchief, Newkirk felt warm blood spill down the front and back of his arm. He heard Hogan mutter something under his breath, and suddenly, painful pressure was applied to the wounds.

Inhaling sharply, the Englishman held his breath, his fist pounding the ground almost as if it had a mind of its own.

Hogan winced at the feel of the broken bone. He hoped he wasn't doing further damage, but he _had_ to get the bleeding stopped immediately, especially with Newkirk losing twice as much blood thanks to the addition of the exit wound.

Newkirk bore the pain almost silently, not wanting a stray German to hear them.

After a few minutes, Hogan let go, to give the Corporal some relief. He watched with concern as Newkirk's body slumped weakly against the rocky wall, eyes closed, face as pale as a ghost.

The wounds continued to bleed.

A strange fog overcame Newkirk's mind for an indeterminable amount of time, before he became aware of Hogan applying firm pressure to the wounds again. It was pure agony, and he sucked in a pained breath. "Ahh, Colonel…I don't s'pose ya could…ease off a bit, mate?" he said, squirming.

Hogan sighed. "I wish I could. You'll thank me later when you don't bleed to death."

"If I survive that long," said Newkirk, his voice strained.

A few minutes passed and Newkirk had to cough again, after failing to hold it in. Carter's handkerchief muffled the sound, but obviously not completely. It seemed evident that no Germans were in the immediate area, or the two men would've long been on the business end of rifles by now.

Newkirk squirmed again. "Colonel…" he pleaded, weakly.

Hogan let go of his arm, seeing that the Corporal couldn't take anymore. The wounds still bled, but slower now, he was relieved to see.

Newkirk exhaled shakily, breathing too fast. It was making his head spin even more, killing any desire to open his eyes.

Hogan's gloves were covered in blood. He was glad that they were leather and not cloth. Taking a second to wipe them on the ground, he had the sudden chilling thought of the Germans bringing dogs in a hunt to find them…they'd be found in record time thanks to the scent of the blood.

Newkirk coughed yet again, with a groan.

Hogan patted his shoulder in support, before once again tightly grasping the gunshot wounds. He wasn't surprised at all—in fact, he was actually _relieved_—when Newkirk only lasted another minute before passing out. _That'll make this job much easier._

He was so intent on stopping the bleeding as fast as possible that he didn't notice the snowflake that drifted past his nose a moment later…

TBC


	2. I Know Nothing!

Carter ran as fast as his legs could carry him. There was so much noise from the Germans that he never realized that Newkirk had been shot. The bullets eventually stopped flying as he got too far ahead, and Carter turned to see where the others were. He didn't see anyone behind himself, but it wasn't too unusual for them to split up while being chased. Knowing that the Germans were probably still trying to follow him, Carter knew that the only thing he could do was continue on and hope to find the others already inside the tunnel.

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Something landed on Hogan's eyelid, and he shook his head, looking up to find snow gently falling. _Thanks a lot,_ he thought to the clouds. Looking down at Newkirk, he was glad that he was still out cold, unable to feel the pain caused by Hogan's ministrations.

The snow wasn't falling heavily, but it threw a serious monkey-wrench into the situation; not only would white terrain make it much easier for them to be spotted by the Germans, but there was always the risk of a gunshot victim going into shock, and it was cold _enough_ out there without the added snow.

Hogan had already laid his own jacket across Newkirk's chest, and he still gripped the wounds tightly, hoping to completely stop the blood flow. He had no idea how long they'd been under the ledge…it was still too dark to see his watch.

There had been no sounds indicating that the Germans were still nearby, and Hogan desperately wished that Newkirk was mobile; they might've been able to sneak back to the stalag. Hogan knew that come daylight, the area would be swarming with the enemy, trying to figure out what had happened to their safe.

Wincing, Hogan unwrapped his fingers from Newkirk's arm, his hands painfully cramped. He flexed his fingers a few times, before picking up his flashlight and shining it at the wounds. When he only saw a slow trickle, he sighed with relief, putting the flashlight down and flexing his hands again as he looked up at the sky.

Light off in the distance seemed to indicate that dawn was approaching. Hogan was surprised, realizing that some hours had passed. It had taken a long time to stop the bleeding.

Newkirk had lost a _lot_ of blood.

Sighing again, Hogan took off his reddened gloves and felt the pulse on Newkirk's neck. It was fast, which he expected from a heart that was trying to keep up with depleted circulation.

The snow became more steady, and Hogan crawled out from under the ledge and stood on cramped legs. Looking around, he saw that the sun was indeed rising, and he wondered what the others were going to do when he and Newkirk weren't there for roll call…

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"I don't know what happened to them!" Carter exclaimed. "They were right behind me…we were running away from shooting Germans! Eventually I looked behind myself and they were both gone. I thought we'd gotten separated and they would both be here when I arrived!"

"Well they weren't, and they still aren't!" said LeBeau.

"How many guards were there?" Kinch asked. "Could they have been captured?"

Carter shook his head. "I don't see how…they were right behind me. If they'd been captured, I would've been too."

LeBeau covered his eyes with his right hand. "I really don't want to think of the _other_ possible solution…"

Carter's face fell.

Kinch sighed and walked a few steps away from them. He turned around and shook his head. "Anything could've happened; let's not assume the worst. For all we know, one of them could've tripped or something and gotten hurt, and it's taking them longer to get back."

"_Hours_ longer?" said LeBeau.

"We should go look for them," said Carter, rushing towards the ladder that lead topside.

"Not yet," said Kinch. "Or we'll all miss roll call. It's bad enough that two of us are missing."

"Why don't we just use two of _them_," said Carter, pointing at the three sleeping men that were supposed to bring the safe's contents to England. "They can wear the Colonel and Newkirk's clothes."

LeBeau and Kinch looked at each other.

"For someone who often forgets to think, that's a good idea, Carter," LeBeau told him.

Carter smiled, not even noticing the insult. After a few seconds, his face fell again and he looked towards the ladder. "Yeah…but I hope they're okay…"

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Dawn had risen, showing off four inches of snow, with the flakes still falling.

Hogan was hunched against Newkirk, trying to give _and_ receive body heat. His jacket still lay over the unconscious Corporal, who hadn't moved or made a sound. His gunshot wounds had finally stopped bleeding, but the Englishman was in serious danger, with mother nature trying her best to make the situation so much worse.

Taking a hand out of his pocket, Hogan checked Newkirk's pulse again, finding it faster than before. Sighing, he decided to try to wake the injured man and see if he was capable of walking. With the amount of blood that Newkirk had lost, Hogan doubted it, but they _had_ to get back to the stalag for his health's sake.

Reaching over, Hogan tugged at the rip in Newkirk's sleeve to take a look at the wounds. They hadn't begun to bleed again, to his relief.

"Newkirk?" Hogan said, tapping his cheek. "Newkirk? Wake up."

He received no response.

Hogan tapped his face harder. "Newkirk! Up, Corporal, on the double!"

That time, he heard a soft moan. Newkirk's eyebrows furrowed, and his expression slowly changed into a wince.

"Time to get up," Hogan said. "LeBeau made strudel."

Newkirk opened his eyes, looking confused. He blinked a few times before wincing again. "Ohh…that _'urts_…" he said, re-closing his eyes.

Hogan sighed. "I know it does. Do you think you can walk?"

Newkirk didn't get a chance to answer, suddenly coughing. He raised his right hand to cover his mouth, and was surprised to find Carter's handkerchief still clutched in his fist from the night before.

Hogan looked up the embankment, desperately hoping that no Germans were prowling around.

Newkirk was surprised by the length of the coughing fit, and figured that a lot of gunk must've settled in his lungs while he'd been unconscious. Coughing made sickening pain radiate up and down his entire arm, and he couldn't prevent a moan.

He completely forgot to answer Hogan's question.

Hogan regretfully took his jacket off Newkirk's chest, wishing that the corporal had his topcoat. The sleeves in the black bomber jackets that they wore in the dark weren't wide enough to enable a person to wear two on top of each other.

Hogan put his jacket on and zipped it, pulling up the collar. "Come on," he said, tugging on Newkirk's good arm.

"Oh," Newkirk said, seeming to have dozed off. "Sorry."

Hogan frowned; the corporal didn't sound very coherent. He helped Newkirk get to his knees and crawl one-handed. Once they made it off the ledge, Hogan pulled Newkirk's good arm around his own shoulders and stood up.

The motion made Newkirk gasp and give a cry of pain. "'kay…_now_…I'm awake…" he said, his knees buckling.

Hogan tried to keep him upright. "It's not time for a break yet," he said. "We have to get out of here."

Newkirk clenched his teeth. His body wanted to groan and cough at the same time, and it was a difficult struggle to prevent both.

His nose made the choice for him when he sneezed a few seconds later.

Hogan quickly looked up the embankment. "You're gonna give me a heart attack if you keep that up," he said.

Newkirk hung his head, trying to catch his breath. "Sorry, Colonel."

Hogan shook his head. "Forget it. Just try to stay as quiet as possible…the Germans are bound to arrive soon to take a look at the damage."

"Right," Newkirk said. He lifted his head, blinking when dizziness struck.

Hogan steadied him when he swayed, and slowly took a few steps, making sure that the corporal was capable.

Newkirk stumbled rather than walked, his body having grown too weak from the excessive blood loss. It was obvious that the four-mile trek would take hours.

"It's snowin'," Newkirk suddenly mumbled.

Hogan blinked. "_Please_ tell me that it didn't take you this long to notice that."

"No," Newkirk said. He was silent for a few seconds, his breathing loud and too fast as his body tried to cope with traveling. "Bad timin'," he said.

"You got _that_ right," Hogan said. He could feel Newkirk shivering, and knew that he was, too.

Suddenly, a thought struck him that literally stopped him in his tracks. Hogan looked behind them, before groaning himself.

"What is it, gov?" Newkirk said, his voice sounding distant as his brain attempted to steal his consciousness. He was fighting it as hard as he could, but didn't know how long he'd succeed.

"We're leaving a trail in the snow!" Hogan said. "We'll lead the Germans right to the stalag!"

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"Achtung! Ra—?" Schultz blinked in surprise when he walked into Barracks Two and found the occupants already awake and dressed. "What is going on? I did not have to force you all up!"

"We planned it this way," said LeBeau. "Just to see the look on your face."

Schultz laughed and made the motion of 'after you'.

The men all filed out the door, shocked when they saw the snow.

Carter, Kinch, and LeBeau all looked at each other with alarm, realizing that the situation had unexpectedly grown worse.

Schultz walked between the two rows of men, counting each one. When he passed the end of the line and walked forward, he stopped dead and turned around again, looking at the men. "What…?" he mumbled, staring at 'Newkirk' and 'Hogan'. The men had their shoulders scrunched up with their noses hidden in their jacket collars, just like everyone else…but they were both too short.

LeBeau held out a candy bar. "You see nothing," he said.

Schultz continued to stare, even as he took the candy bar. "Nothing," he mumbled. "I see _nothing_!"

"Report!" they suddenly heard.

Schultz spun himself around to face Colonel Klink. "Ah-ah-ah…the correct number of men are all accounted for!" he sputtered.

Klink nodded, barely sparing a glance at the men, wanting to get back into his dry office. "Good! Dissssmissed!" he said, turning and hurrying back inside.

Schultz looked back at the men, watching as the fakes hurried back into the barracks. "What is going on!" he said. "Where are Colonel Hogan and Newkirk!"

Carter opened his mouth to answer, but Schultz held up a hand.

"No! Do not tell me! I see _nothing_!" He closed his eyes, but reopened them a second later. "Uh...I see nothing for _how long_?!"

"Um…" Carter said. "Not sure yet. We'll let you know."

Schultz blinked at that, as the men filed into the barracks and shut the door behind them.

TBC


	3. Still Waiting

"They must not have been captured," Carter said to the others. "If they had, the Gestapo would've notified Klink."

"True, in a way," said Kinch. "Or they simply didn't get their names out of them and don't know yet that they're POW's from stalag 13."

LeBeau got out their coffee percolator. "Let's listen to see if Klink gets any phone calls."

Carter watched as the Frenchman set it up. "I want to go look for them! It's snowing out there!"

"We will," said Kinch. "Let's just listen in for a few minutes and make sure that Klink doesn't know something that _we_ don't."

Carter sighed, but nodded.

Klink's voice immediately came over the speaker.

"Blown up?" they heard. "Was anything inside? Did we catch whoever was responsible? No?" A pause. "Of course not, Herr General, all of stalag 13's prisoners are present and accounted for, we had roll call only a short time ago. Remember, we're the only stalag that's never had an escape!" Another pause. "Hello? Hello?"

LeBeau rolled his eyes and unhooked their non-coffee pot. "Looks like they weren't captured."

"Then where are they!" Carter exclaimed, worried.

Kinch grabbed the zipper of his jacket and pulled it up all the way. "Let's go find out."

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For once, Hogan wasn't sure what he should do. If they continued on, they ran the serious risk of leaving a trail for the Germans. But if they stayed where they were, Newkirk wouldn't get the medical help that he desperately needed.

As if to further prove that point, the corporal suddenly sagged against Hogan, barely conscious.

"Newkirk?" Hogan said, trying to hold him up. "Hey, stay with me."

The Englishman tried to raise his head, but he was too dizzy.

Hogan turned and all but dragged Newkirk back to the ledge, seeing no other option. The corporal couldn't walk, at least at the moment, and there was still the snow to contend with. _This is ridiculous, _Hogan thought. _Snow or no snow, we need to get back to the stalag! Why did the first snow have to come today, of all days?_

Newkirk started coughing again, trying in vain to restrain it. He gasped when Hogan accidentally jostled him a bit too hard as the colonel maneuvered the both of them back onto the ledge. Once there, Newkirk remained limp as Hogan sat him against the wall.

Hogan looked out at the snow, disliking the fact that he was in the middle of a situation that he couldn't control. He looked back at Newkirk to see the injured man sliding slightly to the right. "Uh uh, Corporal," Hogan said, righting him. "Don't you pass out on me; that's an _order_."

One corner of Newkirk's mouth lifted slightly in a half-grin at that. "Aye aye, guv," he whispered.

Hogan smiled back, even though the Englishman couldn't see it with his eyes closed. "Atta boy," he said, patting Newkirk's shoulder.

A sudden gust of wind blew, sending snowflakes into their faces. Hogan quickly removed his jacket and laid it over Newkirk's chest again.

"Colonel…" Newkirk protested, half-opening his eyes.

"Not a word," Hogan said to him.

Newkirk closed his eyes again, but then he opened them again a minute later, with a startled expression on his face.

Hogan frowned. "What is it?"

"Where are we?" Newkirk asked.

Hogan's eyes opened wide in shock at his question. "Where _are_ we?!"

"Nono," Newkirk said. He closed his eyes tightly as if he was dizzy, before reopening them again. "I mean…we're still 'ere."

Hogan realized that Newkirk was referring to their position under the ledge. "I had to bring you back. We weren't getting anywhere."

Newkirk didn't remember. His brain felt full of fog. "The Germans…"

Hogan sighed. "I know. I haven't heard any around, yet."

"Any minute…prob'ly," Newkirk mumbled, eyes closing again as his moment of lucidity started to wane. He tried to shift his position slightly, wincing from the pain.

Hogan reached out to help him get more comfortable, but froze when a chilling sight met his eyes.

There was fresh blood on the wall.

"Oh _no_," Hogan said, pulling Newkirk away from the wall and looking at the back of his arm. Just as he feared, it was bleeding again. The wound on the front of the Englishman's arm appeared fine…Hogan must've accidentally reopened it when he'd settled Newkirk under the ledge again.

"Why didn't you _say_ something?" the colonel asked, upset, but he received no reply from the half-conscious corporal.

Hogan shoved his hand between the wall and the wound on Newkirk's arm, closing his eyes with a deep sigh. A sudden sound made them pop right open again…

The sound of German trucks.

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Carter, Kinch, and LeBeau rushed around in the tunnel, gathering supplies that might be needed when they found their two missing team members.

"What are you _doing_?" LeBeau asked Carter, who was shoving various explosives into his pockets.

"Just in case!" Carter said.

LeBeau opened his mouth to reply, but changed his mind, knowing how afraid Carter was for the lives of their friends.

The Frenchman felt the same way.

"Everyone ready?" Kinch asked, slinging a pack onto his back.

The other two nodded.

Quickly, they ran over to the ladder and began climbing it.

"Hey," exclaimed one of the three men who were supposed to be on their way to England by now. "What do we do while you're gone?"

"I dunno…dig a new tunnel!" Carter told them.

LeBeau rolled his eyes.

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Hogan's heart pounded as he listened to the sound of yet another truck arriving at the bomb-site. He and Newkirk were less than half a mile away, and it seemed only a matter of time until they were spotted.

Newkirk had lost consciousness again as his accidentally reopened wound continued to bleed. Hogan was furious with himself, taking the blame of causing it. The corporal had already lost too much blood; he couldn't afford to shed another drop.

It was _still_ snowing, to Hogan's dismay. The temperature didn't seem to have raised much through the day…he was freezing, especially with his jacket currently on someone other than himself. Newkirk constantly shivered…nothing would be good enough to keep him warm outside in the cold after suffering such a heavy blood loss, though Hogan chose to believe that his own jacket was helping the Englishman if even just a little bit.

Hogan was surprised when he suddenly heard one of the trucks leave. His hopes rose, though he was afraid to believe that the German officers had already completed their investigation. He desperately hoped that a search would not commence that close to the bomb site, trusting that the Germans would assume that the perpetrators had long since gotten away.

One thing that Hogan realized he could thank the snow for, was that it covered the puddles of Newkirk's blood. It was possible that the Germans didn't even know that one of their bullets had found a victim.

Suddenly, Hogan's heart was nearly sent into his throat when Newkirk, having lain motionless for the past few hours, abruptly started coughing. In desperation, Hogan clamped his hand over the Englishman's mouth, trying to muffle the sound as he fumbled for Carter's handkerchief.

Newkirk's eyes popped open when he realized that something was preventing him from breathing.

Hogan found the handkerchief and shoved it against Newkirk's face, more roughly than he'd intended. "Shh!" he said. "Shh!"

Newkirk tried to weakly raise his good arm, holding the handkerchief himself.

"The Germans are up there!" Hogan whispered.

It took a minute for the colonel's words to get through to the corporal, and he blinked dazedly. His arm felt like someone was repeatedly stabbing it, and his brain felt like it was floating. He nose was horribly stuffed, his head ached, and his lungs felt heavy. He tried to ask, 'What?' but the words didn't come out.

Hogan frowned when Newkirk's head lolled to the side, eyes closed. He quickly checked his pulse, which was erratic and weak. Newkirk's shivering increased now that he was conscious, and his face suddenly grew almost as pale as the snow. "Newkirk," Hogan said, alarmed at the sudden decline. "Talk to me."

The corporal didn't respond.

Hogan tapped the Englishman's face. "Hey, I gave you an order!" he said, hoping the stern words would cut through.

Newkirk blinked his eyes, raising his head a little. "C-Colonel?" he managed to say.

Hogan smiled. "That's right. How do you feel?"

Newkirk didn't reply for a few seconds. "Cold," he finally whispered.

Hearing that word made Hogan's own shivering increase. "Yeah, gotta love German winters."

Newkirk didn't smile at the quip, which showed Hogan that he was barely hanging on to consciousness. The corporal suddenly tried to shift his position again.

Hogan grabbed the shoulder on Newkirk's good arm. "No, don't move. One of your wounds reopened earlier and I don't want it to happen again."

"Numb," Newkirk told him.

Hogan wasn't surprised. "Where?" he asked, wanting to help.

Newkirk didn't answer, instead, one corner of his mouth lifted.

Hogan chuckled despite himself when he realized what was so funny to the corporal. "Would you rather lay down? I kept you sitting because it'd be easier that way to get you up."

Despite the resisting state of his consciousness, Newkirk saw the sense in that. "I'm okay," he whispered. He suddenly started to cough again, shoving the handkerchief against his face.

Hogan sighed, looking up the embankment. If the Germans could hear him, maybe they were thinking that the sound was coming from one of their own men?

If that were indeed the case, than Hogan knew that God was definitely watching over them.

Newkirk lowered the handkerchief, his face turning paler, if possible, as pain radiated through his arm from shoulder to fingertips. He winced, with a groan that he couldn't prevent, and shivered harder.

Hogan squeezed his good shoulder. "Just hold on, Newkirk. For all we know, the others could be out looking for us and we'll be back in the barracks by nightfall."

Newkirk sighed, and Hogan's concern grew when he heard a soft wheeze come from his lungs. _Oh please don't tell me his cold is getting worse!_

"I…hope so…guv…" Newkirk replied, weakly.

"So do I," Hogan said, not voicing his thoughts. _So do I…as long as __they__ don't get caught!_

TBC


	4. You've Gotta Be Kidding Me!

Carter, LeBeau, and Kinch quietly crept away from the stalag, urgently rushing in the direction of the bomb site. Carter had the lead, and LeBeau, so much shorter than the others, had a hard time keeping up.

"Carter!" he whisper-yelled.

The American didn't hear him, so Kinch sprinted ahead and grabbed his arm. "You're going too fast," he said. "We don't know the location like you do."

Carter stopped, looking back at the Frenchman who was still catching up. He sighed, shaking his head. "Sorry."

LeBeau finally reached them. "You should join the Olympics!" he said, half-sarcastically, before running right past them. If the circumstances had been different, it would have been funny.

Carter sighed and ran after the Frenchman.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hogan blinked, having accidentally dozed off for a few seconds. The falling snow had become hypnotic, and Hogan exhaled a deep breath, watching as it formed mist in the air. His entire body was numb from cold, though he was relieved to see that it was warmer that day.

Also, thankfully, the snow seemed to have stopped during his doze.

Hogan looked at Newkirk beside him, who he had an arm around to stop him from possibly toppling over. The Englishman hadn't moved after losing consciousness yet again. Hogan shifted in front of him and gently raised his head, checking the pulse on his neck. The beat it gave could be called nothing short of 'crazy', and sent a thrill of fear into Hogan's chest.

Sighing, Hogan rubbed his eyes with one hand before looking at Newkirk again. He suddenly decided that lying flat might help Newkirk's heart circulate whatever remained of his blood, so he carefully shifted him away from the wall and gently laid him down.

The injured man remained limp, the movement not jolting him back to consciousness.

Hogan reached for the rip in the Englishman's sleeve, pulling it open to look at the wounds. They were both still closed, to his relief. A large area of skin had turned purple with bruising, and Hogan noticed something else that he ignored...until he saw another something, and another, and another.

Frowning, he peered closer at an odd cluster of red dots on Newkirk's arm. Pulling the rip down, he found others. _No, no, no! _he thought. Quickly, Hogan grabbed Newkirk's good arm and pulled up the sleeve. Dots covered many areas of his forearm.

"You've gotta be _kidding_ me!" he said aloud. _Newkirk doesn't have a cold...he has measles?!_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Carter and the others hid behind a cluster of trees as a German truck drove past them. He felt tempted to throw one of his bombs at it...for all he knew; Hogan and Newkirk could be lying lifeless somewhere in the snow because of them.

The others must've known what he was thinking, for Kinch suddenly patted his shoulder as he moved away from the tree. Carter quickly jogged in front of him, and they continued on.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hogan's stomach growled. _How can you think of food at a time like this? _he asked himself.

The Germans above had become very noisy in the past half-hour. Sounds of splitting wood filled the air, as they chopped up the pole that had housed the safe.

A groan to his left turned Hogan's attention to Newkirk, whose head moved slightly as his consciousness tried to surface. Hogan scooted away from the rocky wall and knelt beside him. "Hey," he said.

Newkirk winced, shakily raising his good arm and covering his eyes. It took visible effort.

"How do you feel?" Hogan asked.

"Bloody awful," Newkirk said. He started coughing again, and Hogan stuck the handkerchief into his hand. The Englishman ended the coughing with a sneeze.

"Gesundheit," Hogan quipped.

"Oooh," Newkirk moaned. "Ruddy Germans."

A minute or two passed with the noise above filling the air. It took that long for Newkirk's senses to realize what he was hearing, and his body startled, his eyes opening. He squinted at Hogan for a few seconds, trying to see him through the gray haze that kept invading his vision. "We're still 'ere, then?"

Hogan nodded.

Newkirk re-closed his eyes with a sigh that set him off coughing once more.

Hogan waited until he was finished before saying, "Have you ever had measles?"

Newkirk blinked at him as if he thought him mad. "Wha--?"

In answer, Hogan took his good arm and pushed up the sleeve.

Newkirk brought his arm close to his face, frowning. "Guess I 'aven't...until now." His arm plopped down again.

Hogan reached out and lowered the sleeve for him, before suddenly frowning when Newkirk's body gave an abrupt, odd shudder. He squeezed the arm, leaning forward. "What's wrong?" he urgently asked.

Newkirk tried to speak, but nothing came out. His breathing suddenly became shallow and uneven, his face impossibly pale.

Hogan quickly checked his pulse, finding it weak and rapid. "Newkirk," he said, nervously. "I think you're going into shock. Stay with me! Open your eyes!"

Newkirk tried, he really tried...but it was as if an unseen force was refusing to allow him.

"Newkirk!" Hogan exclaimed, tugging on his good arm. "Don't do this to me, Corporal! Come on, Newkirk!"

Those were the last words that the Englishman heard before his consciousness was once more ripped away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Carter and the others had managed to go almost three miles before they ran into more coming-and-going Germans. There was a roadblock up ahead, so the three men hurried down the embankment on the side of the road.

Once there, Kinch looked back up to the street. It wasn't an extremely steep embankment, but it worried the sergeant. "Carter," he whispered. "When the three of you were trying to get back to the stalag, were you down here or up there?"

"Up there," Carter told him. "In the woods."

"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?" LeBeau asked Kinch.

He sighed. "I wish I wasn't."

Carter stopped running and faced them. "You mean you think they could both be lying shot down here or something?!"

_Shot...or dead._

Carter didn't wait for an answer. He took off running again, fervently praying. _No...no...don't let them be dead...please!_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hogan couldn't remember the last time he was actually this scared. His little group of POWs had overcome incredible odds each and every time they'd helped a prisoner--and several Germans--escape to England...every single time they'd impersonated a German officer, lying right to the face of a Nazi...even every time they convinced Schultz to 'know nothing'. It wasn't right--it wasn't fair!--for Newkirk to lose his life from a gunshot wound to the arm.

But yet here he was, lying unconscious beside Hogan, pulse weak and unsteady, his breathing shallow. Dying. Dying from blood loss and exposure...from an injury that was easily treatable.

If it hadn't been cold outside, Hogan knew that Newkirk wouldn't be in such bad shape. Shock was always a serious risk with gunshot victims, brought on by loss of blood. Warmth was the main treatment for it...helping to keep the victim's body temperature stable so that the blood-starved organs weren't damaged.

But instead, Newkirk had been forced to lay outside in the winter cold...and Hogan couldn't even lend any body heat, being frozen himself! What good was a human ice cube? He'd probably make Newkirk worse instead of better.

Hogan pulled up the sleeve on Newkirk's good arm, shaking his head at the sight of red dots. _Measles?_ How on earth had _that_ happened, and why now? There was no way that Newkirk's body could handle being that sick while so injured.

Hogan wondered if the young Englishman would survive this.

Sighing deeply, Hogan scrubbed a hand across his face. He'd seen so many men die during this insane war...so many...most of which were too young to die.

_Newkirk_ was too young to die.

Hogan couldn't stop the groan that passed his lips, from the pain of mental torment. He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear the snap of a twig.

Grabbing his gun, he pointed it towards human shapes that he could see behind the bushes that sat about twenty feet away.

"Colonel?" said Carter's voice.

TBC


	5. The Cavalry Arrives!

Hogan had never been so relieved to see someone in all his life. The gun nearly fell from his hand, and he frantically motioned his men over.

The sight of Newkirk lying so still scared the daylights out of Carter, who dashed over and threw himself to his knees beside him. "What happened?!" he asked Hogan, taking the pack off his back.

"He's been shot," Hogan said, as Kinch, who already had his own pack open, threw someone's coat over him. "Thanks," he told the radioman, clutching it around himself.

Carter had Newkirk's topcoat, and he and Kinch carefully maneuvered it onto the unconscious man.

"Careful…his arm is broken," Hogan told them.

LeBeau watched, trying to avoid sight of the blood, as Carter buttoned Newkirk's coat with his injured arm inside it before wrapping a blanket around him.

"We need to get out of here, _now_," Hogan said, urgently. "He's lost too much blood and has gone into shock."

"Don't worry, Colonel," said Kinch. He slid his arms under Newkirk and carefully lifted him.

Carter helped Hogan stand, who had some difficulty thanks to his frozen limbs. As he helped his CO gain some balance, Carter couldn't keep his eyes off the horribly pale face of his best friend. He'd never seen Newkirk look so bad, and it terrified him.

With a quick look up the embankment to ensure that no Germans were in sight, the group of men quickly, but carefully, started the four-mile walk back to stalag 13.

"I'm sorry, colonel," Carter suddenly said, holding onto Hogan's arm lest he stumble.

Hogan looked at him. "For what?"

"I should've stayed."

"Stayed?"

"I should've looked back and seen that he'd been shot!" Carter replied. "I was sure that both of you were right behind me…I could hear you both running! I must've been wrong! If I'd looked back and saw what happened, I would've stayed with you, and…"

"Carter," Hogan said. "We _were_ right behind you. When the bullet hit him, he fell down the embankment and accidentally took me with him. If you'd looked back, you would've seen nothing but thin air."

"But I would've stopped, and—"

"And been caught by the Germans, or shot, just like Newkirk."

Carter sighed. "At one point, I did look back, but thought that we'd simply got separated. I thought all three of us would meet up at the tree stump."

Hogan nodded. "Of course you thought that, it's happened many times before."

Carter nodded.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Carter." Suddenly Hogan stopped walking.

"Sir?"

"Kinch," said LeBeau. They all stopped walking and looked at Hogan.

"And _this_ is the reason why we stayed under that ledge," Hogan told them. "We're leaving tracks for the Germans!"

Carter's eyes grew wide. "Uh oh…"

"It's too late now," LeBeau said, pointing at the tracks that the three of them had already left while searching for their teammates. "And Newkirk needs help!"

Without further hesitation, the four men continued on.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

About an hour later, Hogan called for a quick rest. Despite Newkirk being a thin man, they couldn't expect Kinch to carry him the entire way without stopping, especially through six inches of snow. They spotted a huge tree whose low branches had kept a small area dry underneath, and carefully set Newkirk down.

Hogan was glad to sit down too. He hadn't realized how frozen he'd felt until he'd warmed up somewhat inside the coat that Kinch had given him to wear…a nice, thick coat that he was sure belonged to a young American man in their barracks. He made a mental note to thank him when they got back.

Hogan found that his mind seemed clearer now that he wasn't as cold, and he suddenly realized that he hadn't mentioned Newkirk's other affliction to the others yet. "I hope everyone here has had measles," he said, reaching to check Newkirk's pulse.

Everyone looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"Measles?" said Carter, stopping in the act of fussing with Newkirk's blanket.

"Take a look at his good arm," Hogan told him.

Kinch did just that, reaching over and pulling Newkirk's arm out from inside the blanket. All three men stared in shock at the red dots that covered the skin.

"Who'd he catch it from?" Carter wondered.

Hogan shook his head. "Who knows. Are any of _you_ gonna catch it now?"

"I had measles as a child, colonel," said LeBeau.

"So did I," said Kinch.

Carter frowned.

Hogan's heart dropped. "Carter? Not you?"

"Oh yeah, I had them when I was nine," the American replied. "Everyone at school made fun of me because I had a big one right on the tip of my nose!"

"Good, we're all safe then," Hogan said. "I had it when I was 12."

"I'm surprised that Newkirk somehow escaped it growing up," LeBeau said. "I thought every school-aged child caught measles."

Hogan shrugged. "There's always an exception." He noticed again that Carter was frowning as he watched their unconscious friend. "Carter? What's wrong?"

The sergeant sighed. "Well, I've heard that when an adult gets measles, it's more dangerous that when a kid gets it…plus, he's _shot_ too…"

Hogan sighed. "I know. We need to get back immediately." He stood, watching as Kinch again slid his arms under the Englishman.

To everyone's surprise, a soft moan filled the air.

"Newkirk?" said Carter, as Kinch halted in the motion of lifting him.

Everyone crowded around, watching anxiously as Newkirk's head moved slightly and his eyebrows furrowed.

Carter squeezed his good arm. "Hey, wake up. Me and the others found you!"

It took a long minute, but finally, the Englishman opened bleary eyes, blinking at them with an incoherent look before closing them again.

"No!" Carter said, scared at the blank expression. He shook Newkirk's good arm. "Open your eyes, Newkirk! You're scaring us, you know!"

After a bit more shaking, he succeeded in coaxing Newkirk's eyes open again. "Andrew?" he mumbled. "Izzat you?"

Carter smiled wide. "It sure is! Boy, I was so worried about you! How—"

The sergeant was cut off when the injured man abruptly started coughing. They were surprised by how bad it sounded, and Kinch wisely sat him up a little, hoping it would help. Once the coughing fit ended, Newkirk groaned, his head lolling.

"You okay?" Carter asked, nervously. He'd never seen his friend so pale and weak.

Hogan placed a hand on the sergeant's arm. The look in the Englishman's eyes was glazed, and Hogan knew that anything Carter said would simply go over his head. "Newkirk," he said. "We're on our way back to the stalag. Just hold on a little bit longer, okay?"

But Newkirk, still in the dangerous grip of blood loss-induced shock, gave no answer.

"Let's go," Hogan said, standing.

Kinch carefully lifted their injured friend, wincing himself when Newkirk groaned from the motion. "Sorry," he said, not knowing whether or not he even heard him.

Quietly, the four men made their way back, each one praying that their friend would still be alive when they reached 'home'.

TBC


	6. Is There a Doctor in the House?

The next mile passed uneventfully, with Newkirk remaining motionless, likely unconscious again. They had less than a mile left to go, and all four men were full of anxiety, desperately hoping to get Newkirk back in time to save his life.

Finally, the tree stump above their tunnel came into view, and Carter ran towards it, throwing it open. "How are we gonna get him down there?" he asked.

Hogan inwardly sighed. "_Carefully_."

"Why don't we try to wake him up?" said LeBeau. "It would make things easier."

Hogan nodded. "It's worth a try." He felt the pulse on Newkirk's neck, finding it unchanged. "Newkirk?" he said, tapping his face. "Newkirk, wake up. We're back at the stalag. Newkirk?"

The injured Englishman didn't react.

Carter scooped up some snow from the stump and walked over. After hesitating, he brought his hand up and touched the snow to their friend's cheek, figuring the cold would wake him. "Hey Newkirk, you gotta wake up!" he whispered.

"Listen to them, buddy," said Kinch, still holding him. "Before my arms fall off."

But Newkirk didn't move.

Carter tossed the snow back down, and Hogan reached up, tapping Newkirk's face harder than he wanted to. "Newkirk! On your feet!" He tried to sound commanding but keep his voice quiet at the same time. The last thing they needed was to get caught when they were this close to being home free.

Newkirk suddenly twitched, coming awake with a gasp. He started coughing again, and Kinch quickly sat on the edge of the opened stump, trying to roll Newkirk's face into his coat to muffle the sound.

Everyone else crouched, trying to be less visible. Hogan and LeBeau both pulled out their guns.

Carter looked around, making sure no Germans were in sight. He was crouched right beside the stump, and found himself reaching up to pat Newkirk's back, as if soothing a sick child.

Newkirk finally stopped coughing…or ran out of air, with his face squashed into Kinch's coat. Immediately, Hogan was beside him, grabbing his good arm as Kinch set him down.

Being manhandled seemed to bring Newkirk to at least _part_ of his senses, and he blinked at Hogan. "Colonel?" he said, knees buckling the minute his feet touched the ground.

"Uh uh, it's not time to build a snowman," said Hogan, pulling him upright. "Listen to me, Newkirk, you have to climb down the tunnel ladder. We'll help you, but you have to help _yourself_…you know how narrow the ladder is; two people can't fit on it at the same time. Newkirk? Do you understand?"

The injured man blinked, genuinely trying.

"Carter, LeBeau, get down there first," Hogan said.

The two men nodded and dashed down the ladder.

Hogan and Kinch sat Newkirk down on the edge of the tree stump.

"Newkirk," Hogan said, looking into his face. "Are you with us?"

The Englishman looked terrible…face as pale as the snow, his entire body shaking from cold and shock. The look in his eyes was glazed with pain, and he seemed on the verge of passing out again. "Yeah, guv," he replied, unexpectedly.

Hogan smiled, but then gasped in shock when Newkirk sneezed and nearly fell backwards into the tunnel.

The sound reverberated through the woods, as if to say, 'Hey Germans! We're over here!'

Kinch grabbed Newkirk before he could fall, and he and Hogan quickly got him onto the ladder rungs, holding onto him from above as Carter and LeBeau helped from below. Newkirk was so out-of-it, especially after the sneeze that sent his already dizzy brain reeling, that it was a pure miracle that he didn't fall off the ladder.

Somehow, the four men got him safely into the tunnel. Carter pulled Newkirk's good arm around his shoulders, and practically dragged his friend over to the ladder that lead up into the barracks. This ladder was wider and not as high, so it was much easier to navigate, with Hogan and LeBeau going up first and helping to pull Newkirk up.

That done, they gently laid him on Carter's bunk and piled every blanket they could find on top of him, while LeBeau ran to get the camp doctor.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Schultz walked around the stalag, sending frequent glances at barracks two, dreading what he would find at the next roll call. He suddenly saw LeBeau and Sgt. Wilson hurrying to the hut, and the doctor was carrying his medical bag. Schultz followed them and stood outside the door, trying to hear what was going on inside. Curiosity getting the best of him, he finally opened the door and went in.

The first person he noticed was Hogan.

"Colonel Hogan! You are back! Where is New—" he stopped at the sight of the corporal lying on Carter's bunk, pale and shaking. His left arm was being examined by the doctor, and a very obvious bullet wound was visible "He has been shot? I must tell the kommandant!" He turned towards the door.

"And what are you gonna say to him?" said Hogan. "When he asks how it happened? Are you gonna tell him that you knew we left camp, and essentially covered for us? Are you really gonna tell him we weren't here, even though you reported all prisoners accounted for at roll call?"

"Ooh, Colonel Hogan…!" Schultz whined. "Why do you do this to me? I know nothing! I _see_ nothing!" With that, he turned and hurried out the door.

Hogan sighed and looked back down at Newkirk, who had thankfully passed out again. "What do you think, doc?"

Wilson shook his head. "About the wounds or the measles?! I can't believe all the trouble you fellas get into."

"We're trouble magnets," said Carter, sadly. It would've been funny if the situation weren't so serious.

Wilson took a syringe out of his bag, injecting its contents into Newkirk as he talked. "He's in bad enough shape between the blood loss and shock. Add measles to the mix, and this man is a mess."

"And don't forget the broken arm," Carter said, nervously.

With a _snap_, the doctor set the bone and sent the sergeant a look.

"Nevermind," said Carter, wincing.

"I can't put a cast on his arm until the external wounds heal up some," Wilson said, taking out a needle and thread. "Because of the risk of infection. There's nothing we can do for the measles except give him aspirin and try to keep the fever down."

"Fever?" said LeBeau, trying to avoid the sight of the stitching. "But he's freezing! His temperature is _lower_ than normal!"

"Yeah, right _now_. But fever always accompanies measles; he likely had a temperature before you guys went on your mission…it's probably why he's still alive after going into shock while stranded in the winter cold; his body temperature lowered from a point of maybe 101 instead of 98. That three degrees can make a big difference."

Everyone was quiet for a few seconds.

"Wow," said Carter.

"If he wakes up, you need to force him to drink as much water as possible," Wilson continued. "Pour salt and sugar in it…he needs blood desperately, but he won't get it in this camp." He sighed and looked at Hogan. "I know we're keeping the gunshot wounds a secret from Klink, but what about the measles?"

"Keep that a secret too," Hogan replied. "Otherwise he'll want Newkirk quarantined, and might find out that he was shot."

Wilson nodded. "Newkirk is lucky that the measles rash isn't on his face…yet, anyway. In most cases, that's the first place it appears. If it keeps up this way, then no one will see the obvious evidence, at least."

Hogan nodded, and they all watched Wilson continue to care for their friend. When he saw Newkirk's good arm, Hogan was surprised at how much the rash had spread.

"Wilson," Carter suddenly said.

"Yes?"

The American sergeant hesitated for a few seconds. "Do you think Newkirk will die?"

Wilson looked at him, but didn't answer immediately.

"I mean…" Carter gulped. "Like you said, he can't get blood here, and he's got measles too…" He thought back to the time in the woods when he'd shaken Newkirk awake, and he'd looked so sick and weak…nothing like his usual self.

"You know I can't promise anything, Carter," Wilson said, making the bottom fall out of everyone's stomachs. "Look at the conditions we're living in. He desperately needs blood, like we said. He went into shock because of it, which takes a serious toll on the body, and now the measles-fever will return, causing even more stress to his system. He is in very bad shape, and needs proper care in order to come through."

Carter nodded. "I'll take care of him, doc."

"We all will," said LeBeau.

Wilson nodded. "Then he has a good chance. He'd have an even better one if the underground could make a penicillin drop. That, at least, will prevent the wounds from getting infected."

"I'm on it," said Kinch, heading down into the tunnel.

Wilson splinted Newkirk's arm, wrapping it in bandages. "This will have to do for a few days, so I can make sure the wounds don't get infected. I'll go tell Klink that Newkirk is sick and should be excused from roll call."

"Thanks, doc," said Hogan, watching as Carter fixed the blankets around their unconscious friend.

Wilson nodded and stood, picking up his bag. "I'll be back to check on him…let me know when the penicillin arrives," he said. With that, he left, heading over to Klink's office.

Carter finished fixing the blankets, and now he placed his hand on Newkirk's forehead, wondering if his temperature had come back up yet.

"Don't worry, Andrew," LeBeau said. "He'll be fine."

Carter smiled. "Yeah," he said, but deep inside, he was afraid.

TBC


	7. Schultz Knows Something

Newkirk was moved into Hogan's quarters, to hide his condition from the German guards. Klink was told that Newkirk had 'non-contagious pneumonia', and the gullible colonel believed them and agreed to excuse the Englishman from roll call until Wilson's say-so. London quickly notified them that penicillin would be brought to their stalag that night by a local underground agent, and expressed their surprise at the safe being empty. It annoyed Hogan when London didn't tell them what was supposed to be in it.

Newkirk, meanwhile, woke up coughing about an hour after Wilson had finished treating him. He groaned, finding that his throat had added itself to the list of things that hurt. An arm suddenly slid itself under his shoulders, and someone gently lifted him up, pressing a glass to his lips.

Opening his eyes, Newkirk found that it was Carter. He drank the water, surprised at the unexpected taste of sugar in it.

"How you feeling, buddy?" Carter asked.

Newkirk drank the entire glass before answering. "Like someone dropped a bomb on me," he croaked, blinking his eyes as Carter laid him back down. "We're back?"

Carter nodded, placing the empty glass on the nearby table.

Relieved, Newkirk closed his eyes again. He tried to shift his position, and pain screamed up and down his entire arm, making him gasp, which made him cough again.

Carter put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "Hey, you shouldn't move."

The door suddenly opened and Hogan walked in, with LeBeau and Kinch behind him.

Newkirk finally stopped coughing; keeping his eyes clenched shut against the pain in his body. For a second, he wondered why his head was throbbing and his throat was aching, until he remembered that he wasn't only shot, but he was sick too.

Carter patted Newkirk's shoulder, glancing back at the others, who stood quietly, wanting to ask Newkirk how he felt, but no one having the heart to make the Englishman talk.

Newkirk hadn't heard the others come in, and he raised his good arm to rub his eyes, before he suddenly remembered what was wrong with him. _Wait a minute…did the colonel really say I have measles?_

Snapping his eyes open, he was surprised to see everyone standing there. "Oh. 'Ello," he said. "The gang's all 'ere."

Everyone smiled and walked closer.

"How do you feel?" Hogan asked.

"Just dandy," Newkirk replied, looking at his injured arm, which was splinted and wrapped.

"Is your rash itchy?" LeBeau asked. "I might be able to make something that you can put on it."

"No," Newkirk said, rubbing his eyes again. "Should it be?"

"It probably will, later," said Hogan. "If it's anything like mine was."

Newkirk rubbed his eyes so hard that he made them hurt. He blinked at the others a few times to clear his vision, before suddenly realizing something. "Who did I bloody catch this from, an' 'ave ya all 'ad it?"

Everyone nodded, which was a relief to Newkirk.

"It wasn't anyone in the camp, according to Wilson," Carter said. "It must've been someone you had contact with outside the stalag."

Newkirk tried to think, but his brain was too fuzzy. He started coughing again, trying to hold it in when it hurt his throat even more.

Carter again fed him more water, and Newkirk took a big gulp, expecting the sweet taste of sugar…but that's not what he got.

"Gah!" he sputtered. "What'd ya put in it?"

"It's salt," said Carter. "Wilson told us to."

Newkirk drank it much slower. "Remind me ta do the same thing ta 'im behind 'is back."

Everyone smiled, though they were worried at the fact that Newkirk seemed to be acting quite odd.

Hogan felt the injured man's forehead, finding it hot with fever.

Newkirk closed his eyes and shivered at the feel of Hogan's 'cold' hand.

Hogan patted his shoulder. "Just rest, Newkirk. You'll be better soon."

But Newkirk didn't hear him, having fallen asleep.

Carter sighed, worried.

"He'll be all right, Andrew," said LeBeau, refilling the water glass and leaving a pitcher on the table. "It's suppertime…do you plan to stay in here?"

Carter nodded.

"I'll bring you a dish then, and some for Newkirk too, in case he wakes up again."

"Good idea," Carter said, his eyes lighting up. "Maybe he'll feel better after he eats."

"He will," said Hogan, looking at his watch. "The underground agent is supposed to meet us in two hours at the tree stump. Kinch, you meet him, and LeBeau, make sure Wilson's here."

"Will do, Colonel," Kinch said.

"Yes sir," said LeBeau.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Thankfully, nothing prevented the underground from dropping off the penicillin, providing the men with much-needed relief that Newkirk's bullet wounds wouldn't get infected and make him sicker than he already was.

"Can't the penicillin help the measles?" Carter asked.

Wilson shook his head as he prepared to give Newkirk the shot. "It doesn't do a thing to help viruses, only bacteria."

"Darn."

The sting of the needle woke Newkirk, predictably, which gave them a good excuse to shove food down his throat. He wasn't hungry, which wasn't surprising to Wilson, but it greatly worried the men.

"You gotta eat, Newkirk," said Carter. "How else will you get strong again?"

"I made soup!" LeBeau told him.

Newkirk kept his eyes closed, feeling miserable. His head throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, which was only a little better than the way his injured arm felt. He also found that the arm had started to itch, and he had to fight himself not to reach over and scratch it. All in all, he simply didn't want to move. "Please, fellas…" he mumbled around a thermometer. "Later."

Wilson took the thermometer out of his mouth and tsked at it. "102.3." He put a wet cloth on Newkirk's forehead and looked at LeBeau. "Put some soup in a cup. Drinking it will be a lot easier than eating it."

LeBeau nodded and went to fetch it.

"How's your arm feel?" Hogan asked, eyeing the splint.

One side of Newkirk's mouth lifted slightly as if he thought it a silly question. "Like it was shot. An' broken. An' 'as measles on it."

Hogan smiled back, but inwardly, he sighed.

LeBeau returned with a mug and Hogan took it, waving at Carter to move away from the side of the bed. "Take a break, I'll help him."

Carter obediently stood, but he didn't leave the room. Hogan knew that the sergeant still felt guilty about 'leaving' them in the woods.

Hogan lifted Newkirk up slightly, trying not to let his left arm move. "Here, drink this."

Without complaint, the Englishman did, grateful that Louis hadn't made it too hot.

Hogan handed the cup back to LeBeau, who said, "Is there anything else I can get you?"

Newkirk shook his head, coughing again.

"What he needs now is sleep," said Wilson, standing and shooing everyone out.

"I'll stay," Carter said.

Each of Newkirk's friends wanted a chance to sit with him, but they all knew that Carter was still blaming himself, so no one complained.

Once the door was closed, Carter rewet the cloth on Newkirk's forehead, and sat back down in the nearby chair with a sigh.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later that night, Sgt. Schultz patrolled the stalag, consoling himself with thoughts of LeBeau's strudel—which the Frenchman had promised to make the next day— when he suddenly heard the sound of coughing coming from barracks two. He knew that Newkirk had been shot while outside the stalag in the middle of some 'monkey business', and Wilson's report of the Englishman being sick had seemed like a convenient excuse to keep his injury hidden. Schultz had naturally not said anything to Klink, not only afraid that he would face a firing squad himself for 'allowing' the prisoners outside the stalag, but he had a soft-spot for Hogan and his men, and feared what would happen to _them_. He often professed to know 'nothing', but he actually knew quite a lot...including the fact that the constant sabotage in the immediate area was due to the antics of this small group. The men always came back to the stalag, so what could he really do? Deep inside, Schultz couldn't blame them for what they were doing. War was war, and each side hoped to win.

Walking towards barracks two; he could still hear the coughing, which didn't appear to be stopping. He quietly opened the door and walked in, surprised to hear some of the barracks' other occupants snoring through the noise. The coughing was coming from Colonel Hogan's quarters, and he quickly opened the door.

Hogan and Carter looked up when Schultz came in, relieved to see that it was only him.

The Englishman was coughing into a towel, trying to muffle the sound as to not wake anyone. He'd apparently rolled onto his right side, probably because it was easier to cough that way, and Hogan was gently holding his splinted arm to avoid further injury.

Carter was crouched on the floor beside the bunk, holding a glass of water.

Schultz frowned at the sight, realizing that Newkirk really _was_ sick…apparently _very_ sick.

Newkirk didn't hear Schultz come in. All he knew what that he could not stop coughing. His chest and throat were on fire, and his head throbbed to the point of explosion. He gasped when stars suddenly erupted in his vision.

Carter gave a shocked cry when Newkirk suddenly went completely limp, the coughing coming to an abrupt halt.

Hogan carefully rolled the unconscious Newkirk onto his back again, gently setting down his broken arm. "Schultz, go get Wilson!"

Without hesitation, the German guard obeyed and rushed out of the room.

TBC


	8. Suspicious Klink

Sgt. Wilson was startled awake when Schultz practically burst through the door to his barracks. He suspected what the German guard was going to say before he even said it.

"Wilson! You are needed in Barracks Two! Something is wrong with Newkirk!"

_What __isn't__ wrong with him? _Wilson thought, as he jumped out of his bunk.

The two men ran back to the other hut, bursting through the door and noisily entering Hogan's quarters, without realizing that most of the men inside the barracks were still asleep.

"What happened?" Wilson demanded.

"He couldn't stop coughing, and then he passed out!" Carter exclaimed, fearfully.

Everyone was quiet as the doctor quickly examined their friend. Wilson found that Newkirk's heart was beating too hard and much too fast. He stuck a thermometer into the Englishman's mouth, before turning and looking at the others.

The doorway had filled with men who'd been woken by their entrance into the barracks, including LeBeau and Kinch.

"Doc?" said Hogan.

Wilson shook his head. "Bottom line; Newkirk needs blood. A depleted blood supply circulates less oxygen and seriously lowers the blood pressure. Coughing like that prevented even more oxygen from getting to his brain, so he fainted." He reached over and grabbed the thermometer.

Carter leaned forward to read it. "Oh _boy_…" he said.

At Hogan's questioning look, Wilson told him, "103.4."

LeBeau muttered something in French.

"What can we do for him, doc?" Hogan asked, urgently, watching as Wilson removed one of the blankets from Newkirk's body.

Wilson glanced at Schultz, knowing that the guard was unaware of the measles. "It's not uncommon for fevers to spike in the night, but I'll stay here to keep an eye on him. Such a high temperature isn't easily tolerated in an adult body…" _especially when already weakened from being shot, _he thought.

Hogan knew what Wilson was leaving unsaid.

"Why _is_ that?" Carter asked. "Howcome kids get over illnesses so easily, but adults get so much sicker? You'd think it'd be the other way around!"

Wilson nodded. "One of life's mysteries."

Hogan sighed, and realized that Schultz was still standing there. "Thanks, Schultz," he said, leading him out of the room.

Schultz nodded, looking behind his shoulder as they approached the barracks door. "Newkirk is sick."

"Yeah."

"But…he's _very_ sick."

"I know."

Schultz took the door handle. "Does it have anything to do with him being…" He paused and looked around, before leaning in and whispering, "Shot?"

Hogan shook his head. "He was already sick before that. I just…didn't realize how badly…" _or I would've refused the mission, _he thought, with a sigh.

"Oh." Schultz sighed and opened the door. "Let me know if there is anything I can do?"

"We will," Hogan said, slapping the German guard on the back. "Thanks."

Schultz nodded and left the barracks, watching the door close behind him. Sighing, he leaned against the hut, as if he could prevent further harm to its occupants.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Newkirk didn't have another crisis in the night…but he didn't wake up, either. Some of the men in the barracks didn't go back to sleep, and it was a tired group of POWs who lined up for roll call that morning.

"Repoooooort!" Colonel Klink exclaimed, strutting out of his office.

"Everyone is accounted for!" Schultz told him. "Except for Corporal Newkirk and Sergeant Wilson, who are still inside Barracks Two!"

"Why is Sgt. Wilson not out here!" Klink asked.

"He's watching over Newkirk, Kommandant," said Hogan.

"Humm," said Klink. "About that, Hogan…how do I know that Newkirk is really _in_ there?" he asked, with his 'I'm-in-charge' voice.

Hogan blinked. "What do you mean, colonel?"

"How do I know that he hasn't escaped? How do I know that Wilson hasn't escaped too? I want to see for myself," Klink said, heading for the barracks.

Hogan inwardly sighed, having wondered how long it would take Klink to get paranoid. He followed and dashed in front of the German colonel, standing in front of the door. "I'll let you see him, sir, but you have to be _very_ quiet."

"Hogaaaaan…" Klink said, getting even more suspicious. "Move aside!"

Hogan sighed and opened the door, walking over to his quarters. He grabbed the handle and unobtrusively rattled it, saying, "Shhh!" to Klink, with a finger to his lips.

Klink pushed past him and opened Hogan's door.

Wilson looked up from where he sat, patting Newkirk's fever-hot face with a wet cloth.

Klink stopped where he stood, and frowned. "He looks _terrible_," he said, his voice instantly changing. "What is that on his face?"

"High fevers sometimes make the skin turn red," Hogan told him. "Didn't you know that?"

Klink blinked. "Oh, yes, of _course_ I knew that." He looked at Newkirk for another few seconds. "Shouldn't he be quarantined? You're sure it's not contagious?"

Wilson shook his head. "No, it isn't. I'm sure." _At least, not contagious to anyone __here__._

Klink nodded. "Aha. I see. All right then, disssss-missed!"

Everyone just looked at him.

It took Klink a second to realize that _he_ was the one who had to leave, and he made a face and turned, strutting out of the room.

Wilson looked at Hogan and sighed with relief, as Hogan and the others came over. "Good thing you rattled the door," he said, pulling the extra blanket off Newkirk. "Or I wouldn't've known to hide his arm."

"Boy, that was lucky," Carter said.

"Yeah, and the Kommandant didn't recognize measles when he saw it," said Hogan, studying Newkirk's face, which now had the rash on both cheeks.

"How do we know that _Klink_ has had measles, colonel?" LeBeau asked. "If _he_ catches it now…"

"I sent a message to London, asking them to try finding out," Hogan told him. "They were able to obtain information that Klink had measles when he was six years old, and Schultz had it when he was eight. I guess they were both too young to remember what it looked like."

"That's a relief," Kinch said.

Hogan nodded. "It sure is."

"I asked every prisoner in this camp," Wilson told them. "Newkirk is the only one who apparently never had measles. It's pretty rare for someone to make it to adulthood without catching it."

Everyone nodded, before Hogan looked at his men. "There's something very important that we need to do today."

"What's that, colonel?" Carter asked.

"The tracks that we left in the snow to and from the bomb site. The Germans wouldn't've found them overnight, but today is a different story." He crossed his arms and sighed. "We need to find a way to release the dogs outside the wire, and _fast_."

"Why don't one of us just try to escape, colonel?" said LeBeau. "That'll make them release the dogs."

"Yeah, but you saw that Klink was suspicious that Newkirk being sick was a trick so he could escape. If someone _did_ try to escape now, he might try to connect the two, and we can't afford him seeing Newkirk like this again. It has to be something different."

Everyone thought for a minute, before Carter spoke.

"Why don't we bring some of the dogs through the kennel tunnel and out the stump. We can take them for a run, and that would destroy the tracks for sure!"

Hogan nodded. "That could work."

"Way to go, Carter!" said LeBeau, affectionately. "Two good ideas in the same week!"

Carter smiled.

"You two; work on it," Hogan said to LeBeau and Kinch.

"Right," Kinch said, and the two of them left the room.

Wilson stood up. "I'm gonna go stretch my legs for a few minutes."

Hogan nodded. "Okay."

Wilson left the room, and Hogan sat in the chair. He and Carter stared at Newkirk for a minute before Carter spoke.

"You think he'll survive, colonel?"

Hogan nodded. "Of course he will. Newkirk would never let something like _this_ beat him; mark my words. He's too stubborn!"

Carter chuckled. "Yeah, he sure is!"

TBC


	9. Guard Dogs are a Prisoner's Best Friend

Hogan and Carter sat quietly for a few minutes, before Newkirk suddenly made an odd noise and started coughing, startling the daylights out of Carter, who stood and grabbed a nearby glass of water.

Hogan moved to the head of the bed and sat Newkirk up a little, arranging the pillows to keep him more upright, figuring it'd help him breathe better.

After the Englishman coughed his lungs out, Carter helped him drink the water, and they watched worriedly as their sick friend blinked lazily and stared into space.

"Newkirk?" Carter said.

_*blink*_

"Peter?" Carter tried again. "Can you hear me?"

Newkirk _did_ hear his voice, but it seemed far away. Blinking again, he slowly realized that two other people were in the room with him. Turning his head, he stared at Carter as if trying to remember who he was.

The American sergeant was frightened by his friend's uncomprehending look. "Hey…are you _in_ there, buddy?"

"What ya doin' 'ere, Andrew?" Newkirk answered. "Didja escape too?"

"Escape?" Carter glanced at Hogan. "No…I didn't escape, and neither did you. We're still at stalag thirteen."

Newkirk closed his eyes for a few seconds before reopening them. "Oh…thought I was 'ome." He sighed, and both of the other men winced at the audible wheeze. They weren't surprised when it made Newkirk cough again.

Carter reached over and gently felt his forehead. "I don't think his temp has come down at all, colonel."

Hogan sighed. He turned when the door opened and Wilson came back in. "You're just in time, doc."

Wilson immediately looked at Newkirk, whose eyes were closed again. "What happened?"

"He hallucinated," Carter told him, placing a wet cloth on his friend's forehead. "He thought we'd escaped the stalag and gone home!"

"I'm not surprised," Wilson said, sitting back in the chair. "That's not uncommon with a high fever." He sighed. "I just hope he doesn't get worse before he gets better."

Carter looked at him, shocked. "What? Worse than _this_?"

"Keep in mind the state of his health beyond the measles!" Wilson told him. "He's also been shot, his arm broken, and went into shock. He hasn't received any blood to replace what he lost." He shook his head. "Newkirk's body is really being put through the wringer. His recovery from all this will be slow."

Carter sighed, and Hogan put a hand on his shoulder. "This isn't your fault. You're blaming yourself for nothing."

Wilson frowned, not really knowing the entire situation.

"Yeah, but…I shouldn't've kept running. I should've stopped to check…" Carter replied.

"If you had, you would've been caught or shot too," Hogan reminded him.

Carter sighed again and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Why don't you take a nap," Hogan said. "Wilson and I will watch him."

The American sergeant rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "Thanks, colonel, but I'd rather stay here."

Hogan nodded, and suddenly sensed that Carter needed a moment alone. He motioned for Wilson to follow him, and they both left the room.

Carter took the cloth off Newkirk's forehead and rewet it again. "Newkirk? Are you still awake?"

The Englishman's eyes moved beneath the lids, and he turned his head slightly, but didn't answer.

Carter replaced the wet cloth and fixed the blanket covering his friend, sighing yet again. "I'm really sorry that you got shot…I wish I'd known what happened. I thought you were behind me while we were running from the Germans. The colonel says that I would've been caught or shot too if I'd stopped, but I still wish I had. Maybe the two of us together could've gotten you back sooner, and you might not be in such bad shape now." He shook his head.

Newkirk moved his head again. "Andrew?" he suddenly said.

The American sergeant was surprised. "Yeah, buddy?"

But Newkirk didn't say anything else, eyes remaining closed.

Carter smiled. Newkirk might not be coherent enough to comprehend what he'd just said to him, but he was glad that at least his friend knew he was there.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Meanwhile, LeBeau and Kinch were both wishing that Hogan hadn't given them the job of having the dogs destroy the tracks in the snow. They'd taken four of the guard dogs, rushing after them when each one ran barking through the tunnel as if they were having the time of their lives. Getting them up the ladder was pure insanity, but they finally succeeded and let them all loose, smiling with relief when the tracks turned into a snowy mess. They let the dogs run as far as they wanted before finally herding them back towards the stump and getting them back into the tunnel, repeating the lunacy of getting them up yet another ladder and back into the kennel.

It wasn't a moment too soon, for not five minutes after they brought the dogs back, Sgt. Schultz walked by the kennel, and glanced inside. He blinked at the sight of one of the dogs covered in snow.

"Bruno!" he said to the dog. "Why are you all wet?!"

The dog, in response to hearing its name, barked in reply.

Schultz closed his eyes and looked away. "Noo! Do _not_ tell me! I know nothing! I see _noth-iiiing_!"

With that, he hurried away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Newkirk's mind drifted in a sea of numbness. He didn't know who he was, where he was…not even _why_ he was. He could hear voices, and felt people's hands occasionally touching him, but it seemed as if he was incapable of moving.

Something wet and cold touched his forehead, making him shiver; the quivering movement apparently all his body needed to fully wake up and announce the great deal of pain that it currently felt.

He must have winced, or made some type of sound, for a voice was suddenly talking to him.

"Newkirk?" it said. "Are you awake?"

He certainly was, if the stabbing pain in his arm and throbbing in his head meant anything. He felt terribly weak, and his brain seemed to spin even with his eyes closed. He couldn't remember what happened, and really didn't want to know.

Suddenly his lungs spasmed, and he started coughing. Hands touched him again, holding him a little more upright, which sent an intense rush of pain down his left arm. Coughing was making his chest hurt, as well as increasing the throbbing in his head, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole somewhere.

A glass suddenly touched his lips, and he gratefully drank the cool water within, hoping it would soothe the aching dryness in his throat. He tasted the wonderful sweetness of sugar in the water, and was sorry when the glass was pulled away. He was finally reclined back against a pile of pillows, and he lay quietly, listening to the sound of his own wheezing.

"Newkirk?" he suddenly heard again.

He tried to answer, he really did, but his brain felt like it was floating somewhere above him. He felt safe, at least…he knew that voice…he knew it…he just couldn't recall the person's name…

"He must be asleep again," someone else said. He knew _that _voice, too.

"I wish he would wake up," said another familiar voice. "He needs to eat."

The voice that had called his name sighed, and the cloth that lay upon his forehead suddenly disappeared and came back a few seconds later. He shivered again and tried to turn his head towards the person, but hadn't the strength.

"Newkirk?" he suddenly heard. Perhaps he had managed to move after all? He tried to open his eyes, he tried to reply…but darkness once more took him before he had the chance.

TBC


	10. Finding the Strength to Fight

The rest of the day passed with more of the same…Newkirk seeming to almost reach consciousness, only to fall out of its grip before fully reaching it. They managed to get some more water into him late that afternoon, but it wasn't until almost nine o'clock that night that he almost woke up again, startling everyone with a sudden coughing fit.

This time, LeBeau had some soup broth warming on the stove, and they managed to feed him some before he dropped right off again.

By now, even Hogan was wondering if Newkirk would actually recover, though he'd never admit it. He'd learned a long time ago the importance of morale, and as the senior-ranking officer in the camp, he felt that it was his job to keep everyone's spirits up. He certainly didn't want to worry the others more than they already were.

Their fears increased a few hours after midnight when Newkirk unexpectedly grew restless: a dramatic change from having lain motionless for so long. His breathing was too fast, and he moved around in the bed.

Wilson checked his temperature, and found it to be exactly 104. "We need to cool him down right now!" he told the others.

"LeBeau," Hogan said. "Quick, go yell for Schultz!"

The short Frenchman dashed to the door and shouted for the German guard, who came running.

"What? What?" Schultz exclaimed.

Hogan darted over and grasped his arm. "You have to tell the guards to let us out. Newkirk's temperature is 104 and we need to put him in a tub of water or he'll die!"

Schultz was shocked at the news. "Stay here one minute!" he told Hogan, before running out the door and shouting in German loud enough for the entire camp to hear.

Hogan went back into his quarters, to find a terrified Carter literally pouring water on top of Newkirk's body. He automatically opened his mouth, to reassure his poor sergeant, but for the first time that he could remember, Hogan couldn't find any words to say.

Schultz ran back in. "You can come out, no one will shoot! Some of the guards are getting water."

"Make sure it isn't cold!" Wilson said, gathering his supplies. "It needs to be room temperature!"

"Jawohl!" Schultz said, forgetting to speak English as he ran back out.

The barracks erupted in a flurry of activity, everyone who'd been sleeping now wide-awake.

Kinch once again picked Newkirk up, and they left the barracks and into the dark, which was suddenly illuminated by the nearest searchlight. A few of the men instinctively flinched, before they all realized that the guard was lighting their way towards the bathing hut.

Once inside, they spotted the tub that had water in it, and Wilson stuck his hand in to check the temperature. "Someone run back to the barracks and heat up a pail of water. It's a little too cold."

Four men nearly knocked each other over in their rush to go back.

Kinch sat on a nearby bench, still holding Newkirk, who was as limp as a rag doll.

Hogan heard a sniff, and looked at Carter, who was standing beside him. The sergeant was fidgeting, and Hogan could see him visibly shaking. Knowing that words wouldn't help in a situation like this, he simply put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

The men quickly came back, dumped the water into the tub, and Kinch placed Newkirk inside, clothes and all.

Suddenly, someone was pushing their way through the crowd, and Hogan realized with a start that the splint on Newkirk's broken arm was easily visible.

Colonel Klink—wearing a hilarious outfit of his bathrobe, boots, and hat—made his way to the side of the tub, looking in shock at the English corporal before looking at Hogan, crouched beside the tub with his arms in the water, holding Newkirk still so his head wouldn't slip under. The fact that Hogan hadn't even wasted the time to pull up his sleeves showed Klink how deathly ill Newkirk was.

Klink wasn't as hard a man as he tried to show his fellow German peers, and really did feel sympathy for the prisoners. It seemed to take him a minute to figure out the right words to say. "If there is anything you need, the guards have my permission to assist you," he finally said.

Hogan nodded. "Thanks, colonel."

Klink nodded back, taking one more look at Newkirk before leaving the room.

Hogan sighed with relief before pulling his arms out of the tub, grateful that he'd succeeded in hiding Newkirk's broken arm from Klink's view. He shook his sleeves, before seeing a towel thrust into his vision.

He took it, and found that Schultz was the one holding it out to him. "Thanks, Schultz." He reached out and squeezed his arm. "Thanks for everything."

The stalag guard nodded. "You're welcome. You know me, Colonel Hogan…" he looked around, making sure no Germans could hear him.

Hogan smiled. "I sure do. We couldn't've picked a better enemy."

Schultz chuckled at that.

The next two hours passed at a turtle's pace. Carter knelt beside the tub the entire time, dribbling water onto Newkirk's face and quietly talking to his unconscious friend until Wilson decided that Newkirk could be taken out of the tub. His temperature had been coaxed down to a more 'safe' level of 102.4.

Kinch and Hogan lifted him out, and they brought him back into Hogan's quarters, where they laid him onto the bunk still wet, hoping it would continue to help the fever.

Wilson sighed and sat down. "He's a fighter, I'll say _that_ much…though I don't know what he's fighting _with_."

Hogan and Carter nodded. It amazed them that Newkirk was still hanging on, despite his body having had to deal with so much.

"The fact that he's made it this far—and managed to get through a 104-degree fever—makes me more optimistic of his survival," Wilson continued.

Carter perked up at that, and looked at Hogan with a smile.

"Don't raise your hopes _too_ far just yet," said the medic, wanting to ease their fears but not give false hope. "He still has a long way to go."

"He'll make it," Carter said, finally letting himself believe it. "He knows that his friends are here, and _that's_ where he's finding the strength to fight."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When roll call approached, Klink allowed the inhabitants of barracks two to stay inside, having Schultz do a head-count instead. Klink came inside with the sergeant, taking a peek at Newkirk.

"How is he doing now?" he asked Hogan.

The American colonel shrugged, with a sigh. "Better as far as his fever goes. The water lowered it to 102.4, and that's still where it's at right now."

Klink nodded. "I wonder how he became so ill? What a relief that it is not contagious." He suddenly looked around. "You're still sure that it isn't?"

Hogan nodded. "Oh yeah. Look at _us_…we all live in here with him," he said, gesturing to the other prisoners. "If anyone could've caught it, we probably _all_ would've by now."

Klink nodded. "True, true."

Schultz approached them. "Everyone in barracks two is accounted for, Herr Kommandant!"

"Of course we are," said Hogan. "I made a motion to the Escape Committee to put a hold on all escape plans until Newkirk is well enough to come with us!"

"Mfph!" Klink said, before turning and walking out of the room.

"Jolly joker," said Schultz.

Hogan chuckled, giving him a friendly slap on the back as the sergeant followed after Klink.

TBC


	11. So Tired

With Newkirk's fever finally lowered, everyone hoped that he would soon wake up…and be coherent. The morning passed, lunchtime came and went, and still nothing. It wasn't until late-afternoon that the Englishman finally showed signs of life.

Wilson was in the middle of checking the bullet wounds on Newkirk's arm, grateful that the penicillin was doing its job of preventing infection. He squeezed the bruised skin to feel the break in the bone, making sure that it was still properly set, and was startled out of his mind when his patient's whole body flinched violently, and Newkirk gave a cry of pain.

Of course, that set him off coughing.

Carter nearly fell out of his chair in his rush to get off it, and he threw himself to his knees beside the bed, grabbing his friend's good arm and trying to hold him down lest he further damage the currently unsplinted arm.

Hogan, having not been in the room, dashed in and took over from Carter, keeping Newkirk still while the sergeant poured a glass of water.

Newkirk coughed his lungs out while Wilson hurriedly finished, reapplying the splint before nodding at Hogan.

The colonel let go of Newkirk, taking the water from Carter and helping the sick man drink it when he was finished coughing. Newkirk kept his eyes closed after he finished the glass of water, and groaned, with a wince that he couldn't hide.

"Newkirk?" said Carter. "Are you awake?"

The wince remained on the corporal's face. "I…think so," he gasped, still trying to catch his breath.

Carter's face split into a wide smile and he whooped.

Newkirk winced again, raising his good arm to his throbbing head before opening his eyes. "Wha'…was zat…for?" he mumbled weakly.

Carter knelt beside the bed again and grasped his friend's good arm. "You're actually awake! And talking!"

Newkirk looked at him, blinking tiredly. He could see tears in Carter's eyes, and the sight woke him up a little more. "What 'appened?" he asked.

Carter shook his head, unable to speak for a minute, sniffing and wiping his eyes.

LeBeau and Kinch came into the room, having heard Carter's happy shout. They saw Newkirk awake, and both smiled happily.

"Mon ami!" LeBeau exclaimed. "We are so happy to see you awake! How do you feel?"

Newkirk felt overwhelmed by all the noise and bustle. He was very confused, on top of all the pain he still experienced. Before he could even try to answer, Wilson popped a thermometer into his mouth.

"Hold it down, fellas," Hogan said, quietly. "It's too much. Let him get his bearings."

Newkirk looked around the room and tiredly blinked at them, all the while the thermometer stuck out of his mouth. He tried to say something, only to almost have the thing fall out.

Wilson took it. "Still the same," he told the others.

Newkirk lay quietly for another minute, closing and reopening his eyes a few times, still completely exhausted. "I've been sick."

Everyone nodded.

"After being shot," Carter told him.

"Oh…right." Newkirk's eyes closed again. He winced.

"Newkirk?" LeBeau said, softly. "You need to eat. Please stay awake."

"Not 'ungry," Newkirk mumbled. "How long?"

"How long what?" Carter asked.

Hogan knew what Newkirk was asking. "We went on the mission Sunday night," he said, sitting on the side of the bunk. "It's currently Wednesday."

"Wednesday?" Newkirk repeated, sounding half-asleep.

Carter looked at his watch. "Wednesday, 4:43pm!"

Newkirk again raised his good arm, rubbing his forehead. He coughed again, and Hogan grabbed the pitcher of water.

"I will get some soup," said LeBeau, leaving the room.

Carter helped Newkirk sit up a little, and fed him the water. After Newkirk drank it, he remained slumped in Carter's arm, his head lying limply against his friend's shoulder.

"I'm...so tired…" he whispered, eyes closed, face terribly pale.

His tone pulled at Carter's heartstrings. "I know, buddy. Just stay awake for a few minutes more, so you can eat some of LeBeau's yummy soup."

Newkirk wasn't hungry, but he tried to stay awake for Carter's sake.

The short Frenchman soon came back into the room with a mug, handing it to Carter, who helped Newkirk drink it.

A few seconds later, the door to the barracks opened, and Schultz came in to do a head-count, the prisoners of barracks two again being excused from roll call. He walked into Hogan's quarters, and his face lit up at the sight.

"Newkirk!" he exclaimed, happily. "You are awake!"

The Englishman looked up over the mug, giving him a smile. "Hiya, Schultzie."

The German guard came further into the room, ever the friend instead of the enemy. "I am so relieved! You were oh so sick, we thought you would not survive!"

Newkirk, of course, didn't know the extent of his illness. "Ya did?"

Schultz nodded. "I have never seen a man as sick as you were in my whole life! I didn't even know a person's temperature could go as high as one hundred and four!"

As if Newkirk wasn't pale enough, he suddenly grew even whiter.

Carter jiggled the mug, reminding Newkirk to keep drinking.

Schultz quickly counted the men. "The Kommandant is waiting for my report. If there is anything you need, Newkirk, have someone let me know and I will do my best to get it for you!"

"Thanks," Newkirk said, with a smile.

"Yeah, Schultz," said Carter. "We really appreciate everything you've done."

Schultz smiled back. "Anytime! I am a very nice man…just ask my mother!"

"If we ever see her, we will _tell _her," said LeBeau, smiling. "And I'll even give her my strudel recipe!"

Everyone laughed.

"Struuu-_del_!" Schultz moaned, closing his eyes. "You promised to make me some!"

"Ah, I did! Sorry, Schultz, with Newkirk being so sick, I completely forgot," LeBeau explained.

Schultz held up a hand. "I understand. Make it when you're ready."

"You'll have it tomorrow."

The German guard's face lit up. "Wunderbar!" he said, excitedly. With that, he left the room.

Hogan followed him. "Hey, wait a minute, Schultz."

"Yes, Colonel Hogan?"

"Could you not tell Klink yet that Newkirk's awake?"

Schultz frowned. "Why not?"

"Well…you know how ol' Blood-and-Guts is…if he thinks Newkirk is better, he'll stop the head counts, and maybe make Newkirk come outside for roll call…and _we_ know more than _he_ knows…"

Schultz realized that Hogan was talking about Newkirk's gunshot wounds and broken arm. "Ohhh, that's right." He made a face, always afraid to lie to the man who could send him to the Russian front. "Okay…I'll just tell him that Newkirk is still the same."

"Only if he _asks_," said Hogan. "There's no sense in volunteering information."

"True," Schultz said, nodding.

Hogan stuck a hand into his pocket. "Here's something for your trouble."

Schultz's eyes grew wide at the sight of a candy bar. "Choc-o-_late_!" he exclaimed, before shutting his mouth and looking around to make sure no one heard him, sticking it into his pocket. "Danke, Colonel!" he whispered, opened the door, and left.

Hogan chuckled and went back into his quarters, seeing Newkirk laying down again.

"Really?" he heard Newkirk say to Carter.

Carter nodded. "And Klink almost saw your broken arm. But Colonel Hogan stuck his arms into the water to hide it, making it look like he was keeping you from sliding under."

Newkirk was trying desperately to stay awake for Carter's story. "Did 'e?"

"Yeah," Carter said. "You know, the krauts haven't been all bad during this. It's surprising how much they actually helped us with you…Schultz keeping info from Klink, Klink letting Wilson stay in here and excusing you both from role call, letting us out of the barracks after midnight to put you in the tub…When Klink saw just how sick you were, he excused the entire barracks from role call, having Schultz do a head-count instead. Klink even told us that his guards had his permission to assist us in any way that we needed." He shook his head. "Surprising."

Newkirk smiled. "Remind me…"

"Remind you what?"

"Ta send Klink…a…thank-you note…"

Carter laughed at that. The first time he'd laughed in days.

TBC


	12. Oww

Newkirk fell asleep immediately after Carter had told him what had happened during the past few days, and he slept for four or five hours before waking again. He was even more coherent this time, which unfortunately made him even more aware of the sickening pain in his arm.

"Hey, buddy," said Carter. "How do you feel?"

Newkirk could barely talk, from the pain. "Me arm…" he whispered. "Oh, _blimey_…" He winced, biting his bottom lip.

Carter frowned with concern, upset at the sight. "Wilson is sleeping on one of the bunks," he said. "I'll go get him."

"No, don't," Newkirk said. He knew that Wilson had been awake with him every moment since taking up temporary residence in barracks two. "I'm okay."

Carter shook his head. "No you're not. I'll be right back."

Before Carter had a chance to leave, Colonel Hogan popped his head into the room, having heard their voices. "Hey, Newkirk!" he said, walking in. "How are you feeling?"

"He's in a lot of pain," Carter told him.

Hogan frowned and sat on the side of the bed. "Your arm?"

Newkirk nodded, clenching his eyes shut and trying not to groan.

Hogan stuck his hand into his jacket pocket. "Before Wilson went to sleep, he told me to give you some of these if you woke up." He held up a bottle and shook it.

"Oh, good!" Carter exclaimed.

Newkirk sighed with relief, forgetting that it would make him cough.

Carter grabbed the pitcher of water and poured some into a glass, while Hogan took two pills out of the bottle. "You have to eat with them, Newkirk," Hogan told him.

Newkirk barely heard him as he tried to stop coughing, the vibration traveling up and down his injured arm. He was unable to prevent the groan that made it past his lips.

"Aw, come on, buddy," said Carter, thinking the Englishman was voicing his opinion of eating. "You've _got _to be hungry by now! All we've managed to get into you is soup! How are you supposed to get strong again?"

Newkirk didn't answer. His arm hurt even more now, if that was possible, and he scrubbed a hand across his face, accidentally making a noise that sounded half like a whimper and half like a sob.

Hogan and Carter were both alarmed to hear such a sound come from Newkirk, and Hogan reached over and felt his forehead, afraid that his temperature had risen and he was becoming delirious again. His fever didn't seem any higher, so he motioned for Carter to bring the glass of water, eager to help ease at least _some_ of their friend's pain.

Carefully, Hogan slid his arm under Newkirk and tried to sit him up high enough without accidentally moving his injured arm. "Open up, Newkirk," he said, holding the pills in front of his mouth.

Newkirk obeyed, having no idea what they were giving him, but not really caring at that point, as long as the pills worked. After he swallowed them and drank the water, he felt Hogan lean him back against stacked-up pillows.

"What do you want me to get you to eat?" Carter asked him.

Newkirk couldn't have cared less. "Anythin'," he said.

Carter looked at Hogan, who shrugged. The sergeant left the room, in search of food.

Newkirk suddenly tried to shift his position and accidentally jostled his arm, gasping, with a wince.

The colonel sat in the chair and reached over, putting a hand on his good arm. "That's not a very good idea."

Newkirk didn't answer; his bottom lip was firmly pinned between his teeth, and he held his breath, eyes closed.

Hogan squeezed the Englishman's shoulder in sympathy, sitting back when Carter came back into the room with a dish. "LeBeau made mashed potatoes and chicken tonight, Newkirk…I cut it up into little pieces for you, see?"

With obvious effort, Newkirk opened his eyes and let out the breath he'd been holding. He quickly found that sitting upright was making him dizzy, so he closed his eyes again.

Carter came over and sat on the side of the bed, stabbing a piece of chicken with a fork and holding it before his friend's face.

Newkirk reopened his eyes, trying to blink the dizziness away. "What are ya doin'?"

Carter made a face as if that was a stupid question. "Feeding you."

"Feedin' me?" Newkirk said, incredulous. "I can feed meself!"

Hogan tried not to smile.

Carter shook his head. "I don't think you can. Open wide!"

Newkirk frowned at that, adrenaline masking some of his pain and temporarily lending him the strength to speak whole--if short--sentences. "Of course I can!" He reached for the fork. "Gimme that."

Carter reluctantly let him take it, watching as Newkirk shoved it into his mouth and chewed. He ate another piece, and then another, before some of the adrenaline wore off and his arm became too heavy to lift anymore. The fork suddenly seemed to weigh as much as Schultz, and the dizziness became more pronounced.

Carter didn't say a word, he simply took the fork from his friend's hand and proceeded to stab another piece of chicken and hold it before Newkirk's face.

Hogan stood from the chair and left the room, giving them some privacy. He completely understood Newkirk's pride, and didn't want to make himself a spectator.

Newkirk was embarrassed to be fed like a baby, but realized that he had no choice in the matter. He was relieved that no one else was in the room, and reluctantly let Carter feed him. He fell asleep in the middle of it, and was only able to eat a little more than half of what was on the plate.

"Come on, one more bite?" Carter said. "LeBeau will be insulted."

Newkirk shook his head, eyes once again closed.

"That's okay," said the sergeant, trying not to sound disappointed. He put the dish on the colonel's table and helped Newkirk lie down again, before sitting on the floor, patting his friend's good arm. "Is there anything else you need?"

Newkirk shook his head again.

"Go back to sleep then," Carter said. "I'm here in case you need me."

Newkirk was half-asleep already, but he still managed to mumble, "Thanks...mate."

Carter smiled, before yawning and rubbing his eyes; Wilson wasn't the _only_ person who'd been awake the entire time that Newkirk had been so sick.

A few minutes later, Hogan came back into the room, and smiled at the sight that he beheld; Carter, sitting on the floor, fast asleep with his head laying on Newkirk's bunk.

TBC


	13. Memories and Strudel

The next day passed slowly. Newkirk did nothing but sleep, cough, drink tea, and sleep some more, still not hungry enough to eat very much. His fever only dropped slightly, hovering around 102, which was alarming to the men. Wilson definitely hadn't been exaggerating when he said that it would be a slow recovery for the Englishman.

The measles rash was beginning to fade from his face, where the redness had been less prominent. His arm still hurt horribly, as it attempted to heal from the broken bone and gunshot wounds.

Colonel Klink continued to leave Barracks Two alone. When Schultz finally told him that Newkirk had woken, he was genuinely relieved…there had never been a successful escape from Stalag Thirteen, and there had never been a prisoner's death, either.

Newkirk was forced to eat supper, after which he fell asleep again, remaining dead to the world until mid-morning of the next day.

_Blood dripped into his left eye, but he made no move to wipe it away. "Corporal Peter Newkirk, Royal Air Force. Serial number 112032…"_

"Newkirk? Hey, wake up."

With a jolt, Newkirk came awake, startled to see a face above him. It took a few seconds for his panic to calm, and he realized that he knew the person staring at him.

"Hey," said Carter. "You okay? That was some dream you were having." He helped his friend sit up and handed him a glass of water. "How do you feel? Any better?"

Blinking, Newkirk fully came to his senses, and remembered where he was. His mind had been lost in his dream, and he blinked a few times, trying to banish the images from his brain. He coughed for a minute—which he always had to do after sleeping—before taking the glass of water, irked to find his hand shaking.

Carter reached over and felt his friend's forehead. "I think your fever is lower! How do you feel?" he asked, again.

Newkirk gulped down half the glass, before lowering it. "Better," he lied, finding his arm hurting as relentlessly as ever. His voice sounded scratchy. Looking around the room, he remembered that he was still in Colonel Hogan's quarters.

"Are you hungry?" Carter asked.

Newkirk shook his head. "No." Closing his eyes, he reached up and rubbed his forehead, annoyed that it still ached.

"LeBeau made strudel," Carter told him, hoping to entice him.

Newkirk reopened his eyes and looked at the American. Carter looked so worried, so he gave him a little smile. "Strudel, eh? I might be able ta pick a little."

Carter smiled wide at that. "Great! I'll go get you some."

Newkirk watched as Carter bounded out of the room, and he couldn't help but smile again. Carter was like everyone's little brother…even though he was acting like an _older_ brother at the moment, catering to his sick friend's every need.

Newkirk suddenly remembered what he'd been dreaming about, and his smile faded.

Carter came back into the room, with two dishes. He handed one to Newkirk, and sat on the side of the bunk.

Newkirk's lungs spasmed again, so he grabbed a nearby towel and coughed into it, before reclining back against the pillows again, eyes closed.

Carter looked at him. "Aren't you gonna eat?"

Inwardly sighing, Newkirk opened his eyes and took a bite.

Carter smiled, before finishing up his own.

Newkirk ate half of his strudel before putting the dish down, hoping that Carter would be satisfied with that. With a sigh, he laid back down, coughing again.

Carter again felt his forehead, with a frown. "Maybe it's not lower after all," he said.

"I'll be fine," Newkirk told him, throwing his good arm over his eyes. "I just need more sleep."

Carter nodded, but the frown was still there. "What were you dreaming about?" he suddenly asked.

Newkirk shook his head. "Nothin' important."

"It was important enough to scare you," Carter said.

Newkirk removed his arm and looked at Carter with a sigh. He knew that his friend would worry unless he told him. "I was dreamin' about the day I was captured an' brought 'ere."

Carter's eyes widened.

Newkirk was quiet for a minute, before saying, "I'd never been so scared in me life. When me plane was hit, I wasn't able ta parachute out. I was in the bloomin' thing when it crashed."

Carter was shocked to hear that. "Were you hurt?"

Newkirk nodded. "I was knocked out, an' when I woke up, I was in the stalag cooler." He shuddered at the memory. "I 'ad blood all over me an' didn't know where I was, or what was about ta 'appen ta me."

Carter was silent, remembering his own fear upon his capture.

"I saw right through Klink, though," Newkirk continued. "When 'e came ta interrogate me. I used me injuries ta my advantage…I 'ad a concussion, an' used it ta act dazed an' pretend that I couldn't remember much." He chuckled. "And 'e believed me, too. Ya know what a good actor I can be...especially when properly motivated."

Carter smiled. "You sure can."

Newkirk smiled back. "Eventually I pretended ta pass out, an' that ended the interrogation…'e didn't get a single answer outta me."

Carter nodded, and they were quiet for a minute.

"Ya probably don't know this, but before the colonel got 'ere…I was a complete wreck," Newkirk said.

Carter frowned at that. "In what way?"

Newkirk shook his head, eyes closed. "After I was shot down, an' realized that I was stuck 'ere…I didn't know what ta do with meself. I wanted ta go 'ome!"

Carter nodded, knowing the feeling.

"I…almost didn't really wanna _live_ anymore…" Newkirk said, much quieter. "If I couldn't get out of 'ere. Each day ran the risk of bein' shot for somethin' or other anyway. I ended up in trouble a lot, when I employed the use of me…_shadier_ talents?"

Carter made a face. "Picked the wrong pockets, eh?"

Newkirk nodded. "More than once, mate. Seemed like I spent more time in the cooler than in me barracks. Klink finally threatened ta transfer me ta a different stalag…an' I couldn't 'ave that, Andrew. Even though I was un'appy, at least I'd made friends 'ere."

"So what happened that changed you?" Carter asked. "Today you're not that same person."

"It was Colonel Hogan," Newkirk told him. "Soon after that, 'e came ta the stalag, an' changed everythin'! Didja ever wonder why I joined 'is outfit? Why I take orders from 'im, when 'e doesn't even 'ave any authority over me branch of the military?"

Carter had never thought of that.

"Because 'e saved me. Saved me mind an' me sanity. There's no tellin' _where_ I'd be if 'e didn't come 'ere when 'e did."

"Wow," Carter said, shocked.

Newkirk closed his eyes, exhausted from talking so much.

Carter rewet the cloth on his forehead and asked no more questions, assuming that Newkirk was done with his story. It amazed the American sergeant that his friend had told him so much, as the Englishman wasn't quick to discuss his feelings.

Suddenly Newkirk chuckled, surprising Carter, who thought he'd fallen back to sleep.

"What's so funny?"

"Klink," Newkirk said, eyes still closed. "When the Colonel 'elped me get me act together, Klink was instantly suspicious. I went from bein' a daily thorn in 'is side, ta 'ardly ever doin' a thing wrong, and 'e didn't know what ta make of it."

Carter chuckled too. "It's pretty fun to confuse Klink, isn't it."

"Ya got _that_ right, mate."

TBC


	14. Papa Schultz

An odd chattering sound filtered into Newkirk's consciousness that his half-asleep brain instantly recognized. He opened his eyes and looked towards the chair that permanently stood near his bed, knowing who he would find sitting in it. The sight he found was exactly what he expected, and he watched for a minute before speaking.

"What's ya mouse doin' in 'ere, Andrew?" he asked.

Carter looked up, glad to see him awake again. "Oh, hey Newkirk! How you doing?"

Newkirk coughed a little. "I'm okay."

Carter smiled, and the chattering sound filled the air again. "Felix makes me feel better, so I thought he might make _you_ feel better too," he explained, holding him out.

Newkirk looked into the American's cupped hands, where the little mouse sat eating a piece of cheese. Newkirk really didn't feel like playing with a rodent at the moment, but he knew that it meant a lot to Carter, so he reached over and scratched the mouse's head with one finger.

Carter smiled. "I'm glad I found Felix here…he breaks up the monotony."

Newkirk laughed at that, which made him cough again. "As if we can call our lives monotonous!"

Carter shrugged. "Sometimes it is!" He shifted his position in the chair. "Did you ever have a pet?"

Newkirk nodded. "I 'ad cats growin' up."

"Cats! Uh oh!" said Carter. "Felix doesn't like the sound of _that_, do you, Felix!"

Newkirk smiled despite himself, re-closing his eyes. He suddenly became aware of voices outside the barracks, sounding like a crowd of men were playing games. But…wasn't it winter?

Newkirk reopened his eyes, utterly confused. "What's goin' on outside?" he asked.

Carter realized what he was referring to. "Oh! It's real warm out there! What my mother would call a 'January thaw', back home. Of course, it's not January yet, but…"

Laughing voices suddenly got louder as the door to the barracks opened. LeBeau poked his head in the door. "It's time for lunch, Cart—oh, you're awake, Newkirk!" His voice had begun as a whisper, until he saw the Englishman's eyes open.

"Yeah, I am, an' if what Andrew 'ere says is true, I think I'd rather be outside right now."

Colonel Hogan came into the room. "I'm not surprised. You've been lying there for days…it would probably be good for you to get some fresh air."

Carter looked worried. "But he hasn't been up yet! Don't you think he's still too weak?"

Hogan shrugged. "We can carry him."

Newkirk smiled, until he realized that Hogan wasn't joking. "Now, no one needs ta do _that_—"

Hogan poked his head out the door. "Kinch!" he exclaimed.

Newkirk knew what that meant, and he was right. The tall radioman came into the room, and Hogan simply said. "Take Newkirk outside."

"Now wait a _minute_—!"

He had no time to voice much of a protest before Kinch bent down and picked him up like he hardly weighed anything.

"Kinch!"

"Oh stop it, Newkirk," he answered. "The whole camp knows what happened to you. There's no need to be embarrassed."

Before Newkirk could say anything else, they were out the door, and Kinch was laying him across the bench that sat against the barracks. Carter came out behind them and sat on one side of the bench to prop his friend up.

Carter hadn't been exaggerating about the weather. It had to be sixty degrees Fahrenheit, on a day that shouldn't be higher than forty. The snow that had fallen the previous week had melted, and most of the prisoners were kicking a ball around and enjoying the day.

Hogan came out the barracks door with a blanket, which he draped across the Englishman, as much to hide his broken arm as to keep him warm.

Newkirk shifted a little, getting Carter's attention. "Comfortable?" the American sergeant asked.

Newkirk nodded. "Yeah." He looked up at Kinch. "Thanks."

The radioman smiled and went back inside, probably to get food.

With a sigh, Newkirk closed his eyes, enjoying the sunlight. He dozed until LeBeau came out the door and patted his good arm, showing him a plate before handing it to Carter. Realizing that he was expected to eat whatever was on the dish, Newkirk pulled his arm out from under the blanket, just in time for Carter to stick something into his hand.

It was half of a sandwich. He took a bite, before his eyebrows shot up. _Where on earth did LeBeau get salami?_

The Frenchman must've seen the surprised look on his face. "The last time I had to play cook at the Hoffbrau, I filched it. I mean, it was hanging right there, begging to come with me, and I figured the krauts owe us at _least_ that much! I've kept it hidden in the tunnel all this time…thought I'd save it for a special occasion."

Newkirk smiled and shook his head, not missing the 'special occasion' part. "I didn't even see ya do it. You're learnin', mate."

LeBeau chuckled.

"Colonel Hogan!" they suddenly heard. It was Schultz, and he had a shocked look on his face as he hurried over.

"What is it, Schultz?" Hogan asked.

"What is Newkirk doing outside?" he said, looking concerned. He absent-mindedly handed his rifle to Hogan.

Newkirk frowned. "Why not, Schultzie?"

"I have five children," Schultz told them. "And I know what it is like when they get sick. Newkirk should still be in bed!"

Newkirk was touched by his concern. "Aw, Schultzie. I'm feelin' much better now."

"I have heard that before from my _own_ kids," Schultz said. "I let them have their way too soon and they get sick again." He reached over and felt Newkirk's forehead. "He still has a fever! Back into the barracks! Raus, raus!"

"Schultz," said Hogan, setting the rifle on the ground and casually leaning on it. "Is Newkirk playing ball right now?"

"No…"

"Is he downstairs in our tunnel?"

Schultz's mouth dropped open and he looked around to make sure no other Germans heard that. "Nooooo," he whispered, in a tiny voice.

"What's he doing?"

"Sitting on the bench."

"Right," said Hogan. "He's fine right there. How is the bench different than a bunk?"

"It's softer," Newkirk said to Carter, who chuckled.

Schultz thought about it. "True. Okay then, he can stay."

Newkirk blinked his bright green eyes up at him. "Thanks, papa."

"You're welc—_papa_? Hahaha, jolly joker!"

Carter smiled. "We're all just kids at heart, Schultz. It's nice to have a father figure around."

Schultz was obviously touched at that. "A _father_ figure," he repeated, puffing out his chest—as if it wasn't 'puffed' enough. He took his rifle back from Hogan and strutted away, head held high.

TBC


	15. A Piece of Strudel

That evening, Wilson took the splint off Newkirk's arm to check the gunshot wounds again. They were healing well and still infection-free. "It looks like I can put a cast on this now."

Newkirk didn't know whether to be glad or upset at that, knowing that a cast would be extremely annoying.

"What are we gonna tell Klink?" Carter asked.

Hogan shrugged. "The only thing I can come up with is saying that he got out of bed with no one around, and fell."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "That does wonders for me pride." He winced when Wilson, removing his stitches, accidentally pulled on a piece that wasn't properly cut, and instinctively tried to pull away, which only succeeded in increasing the pain. "Ow!" he wasn't able to stop himself from saying.

"Sorry!" Wilson exclaimed.

Carter took hold of Newkirk's good arm, as if to stop him from moving.

Newkirk closed his eyes for a few seconds as pain throbbed through his arm, feeling Carter give his shoulder a squeeze. He finally reopened his eyes to see everyone watching him, apparently waiting for him to recover from the flare-up before Wilson touched him again. He was slightly embarrassed, not realizing that they were staring…but after being fed like a baby by Carter, what was the point of being embarrassed by anything else? "I'm okay," he said.

"We'll give it another minute or two," said Wilson. He reached into his doctor-bag and took out his thermometer. "Open wide!"

Newkirk rolled his eyes, thoroughly tired of the sick-treatment. He wanted more than anything to be well again…back to _normal_ 'well'. Even though he was markedly improved, he still had dizzy spells and felt terribly weak. His appetite had yet to return and his lungs still felt heavy, aching when he coughed or tried to take a deep breath…_tried_. The state of his lungs was the thing that worried him the most, but he kept the true severity from the others.

Then, of course, was his arm. He knew that broken bones caused horrible pain, but broken _and_ shot? Twice, even? Not his idea of fun.

Wilson took the thermometer out of his mouth and smiled at what it said. "It's gone down to 101!"

"Hey!" Carter said, smiling. "That's great!" He suddenly looked at Hogan. "You said he'd be okay, Colonel, and you were right."

Hogan smiled back. "Of course I was; I _always_ am."

Everyone laughed at that.

Wilson spent the next two hours applying plaster to Newkirk's arm…a process that was difficult for him and Newkirk both; with the broken bone being in his _upper_ arm, Wilson had to extend the cast up to his shoulder and down below his elbow, to ensure that neither joint could move and misalign the break again. By the time he was finished, everyone was relieved.

The doctor had a piece of cloth that he made into a sling, and looped it around Newkirk's neck, gently setting his arm in it. "There you go, all done."

Newkirk was exhausted by now, and closed his eyes. "When does it come off?"

Wilson smiled. "Getting ahead of yourself, aren't you? Probably six weeks."

Newkirk was shocked at that and opened his eyes. "Six weeks?!"

Wilson nodded.

Newkirk put his right hand over his eyes and sighed, forgetting that it would make him cough. "Well, this is gonna be a _lovely_ winter."

"At least your arm will always stay warm!" said Carter.

Newkirk peeked one eye out from under his hand and gave him a look as if to say, 'shut up'. He lowered his hand and looked at Hogan. "Who gets ta break the news ta Klink?"

"Who else?" said Hogan.

"Schultzzzzzz," everyone replied.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A few minutes later, Hogan exited the barracks in search of their favorite guard. He didn't have to go far to find him.

"Come're, Schultz," he said, leading him back to their hut.

"What is it?" the guard asked.

Hogan said nothing until they entered again. "You have an unexpected report for Klink."

"I do?"

Hogan nodded. "Yeah. Newkirk broke his arm."

Schultz blinked. "I know. It broke when…oh. OH!"

Hogan crossed his arms and nodded.

Schultz gave a longsuffering sigh and closed his eyes. "What am I telling him?" he said, in a small, whining voice.

"He got out of bed without help," Hogan said. "Got dizzy, and fell."

Schultz reopened his eyes and saw LeBeau standing nearby. "Is there more strudel?"

The Frenchman had his hands behind his back, and he pulled them forward to show him a large cloth napkin that he was holding.

Schultz's face brightened and he stepped forward, taking a piece and eating it, going 'ummm!' before taking the whole thing. He gave Hogan a stern look when the colonel grabbed a piece from him, before putting the entire bundle into his coat and walking back out the door.

The colonel walked over to LeBeau as he popped the piece into his mouth. "See? Piece of cake. Or _strudel_."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Corporal Newkirk _what_?"

"He broke his arm, Kommandant," Schultz told him, hoping that Klink couldn't smell the strudel. "Apparently he got out of bed without help, got dizzy, and fell."

Klink shook his head, from where he sat behind his desk. "That Englander gets into more and more trouble! Did you see it?"

"See what?"

"His injury, dummkopf! How do you know this isn't a trick?"

Schultz blinked. "How could it be a trick?"

Klink shook his head again, stood from his desk, and walked out the door, grabbing his hat and coat along the way. They quickly made their way over to Barracks Two and walked in, heading for Hogan's office.

The small room was crowded with Hogan, his men, and the doctor, so Klink couldn't see where Newkirk was.

"Achtung!" Schultz exclaimed, to get their attention.

Everyone turned to look at them.

"Bless you," said Carter.

Schultz blinked. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you sneezed."

"Because I sn—? Ohhh, nono, hehe, I said 'achtung', not 'achoo'—"

"Quiet!" said Klink. "Let me see what is going on here! Hogan, if this is a trick, you and Newkirk will both spend thirty days in the cooler!"

Hogan frowned. "Have a heart, Colonel! He's a sick and injured man!"

"We'll see about that!" Klink said, walking past him and over to the bed.

Newkirk was sitting up, looking pale and miserable with most of his left arm encased in a white cast. Klink could see that it was the real thing…the plaster was still wet. Just like the last time, his tone changed when he saw that they were telling the truth. "Accident prone, aren't you?" he asked.

Newkirk shrugged with his right shoulder. "Been that way since I was a lad."

Klink looked at the cast for another few seconds before turning to Hogan again. "Don't think you can ever fool me, Hogan; one day, it _will_ be a trick, and when that day comes…" he struggled for a word before making a silly gesture with his arm. "Mfph!"

With that, he left.

Hogan rolled his eyes and smiled at the men before sitting on the side of Newkirk's bunk. "How's that feel?" he said, gesturing towards the cast.

Newkirk looked at it. "Strangely better…there's no more tension in me arm now that I don't 'ave ta be afraid of accidentally movin' it."

Hogan nodded. "That's good."

"Are you hungry?" Carter predictably asked.

Newkirk shook his head, also predictably, as he shifted to lie flat. "Maybe later. I could use a nap."

Carter reached over to help, and watched as his friend quickly fell asleep. He sighed, getting Hogan's attention.

"What is it, Carter?"

"I wish he would get his appetite back!" he whispered. "I think he's lost weight from all this, and he was already thin enough."

Hogan nodded. The hard life of a POW. "Worrying isn't going to help, you know. Wilson _said_ it would take time for him to recover."

Carter nodded. "Yeah. Time can go by slowly here sometimes, though."

"It sure can."

Carter was quiet for a minute, before an idea dawned on him.

Hogan saw the change in his face. "What?" he asked.

"I just had a great idea!" Carter answered, getting up. "I'll be right back!"

With that, he dashed out the door.

TBC


	16. Realization

When Newkirk woke up a few hours later, he found that his arm didn't hurt as badly. He'd heard people say that broken limbs felt better after being put in a cast, but he was surprised to find that it was actually true. He turned his head to look at the cast, and blinked at what he saw.

_Get well soon, buddy!_

_Your friend, Andrew_

Newkirk was touched, and couldn't help but smile. He'd gained new respect for the American sergeant, who took care of him so well and never strayed far from his bedside. Even though he'd just woken alone in the room—for the first time since he'd been sick—he knew that Carter would be back within moments…even seconds.

He was proven right when Carter entered the room before he could even count to ten. In his hands was a dish. "Oh good! You're awake!" With that, he placed the dish on the table, helped his friend sit up, and handed him the plate before dashing out of the room again.

Newkirk wasn't surprised to see strudel on it. He stared at it for a few seconds, realizing just how much his friend had done for him in the past week. He inwardly winced when he thought back to all the times he'd teased him, lost his patience with him, told him to shut up, or…

Carter came back with another plate, and he sat on the chair beside the bed. "Feeling better? Did you see what I did to your cast?"

Newkirk smiled again, sitting the dish on his lap. "Yeah, mate. Thanks."

"The others want to sign it too," Carter told him, wolfing down his strudel. "But they didn't want to wake you up, so they figured they'd do it tomorrow."

_Tomorrow? _Newkirk thought, taking a bite. "What time is it?"

"Almost 10:30. You only slept for a few hours."

"Oh," Newkirk replied. "Wonder why I woke up."

Carter put his empty dish on Hogan's table. "Maybe you smelled the strudel."

Newkirk smiled and ate the rest of his, knowing that Carter would be overjoyed to see that he actually finished it all. He handed the plate to his friend and closed his eyes, trying to hold in a cough.

Carter sat quietly, not sure if Newkirk was going back to sleep.

"Andrew?" the Englishman suddenly said.

"Yeah?"

Newkirk's eyes opened. "I seem ta recall ya apologizin' ta me a lot. What was that all about?"

Carter sighed. "Well…that night at the bombsite when you were shot. We were all running from the Germans, and I didn't look back and see what had happened to you..."

Newkirk closed his eyes again. "Oh Andrew, don't tell me you're blamin' yourself for this."

"Well…I…"

"Who fired the gun?"

"A German."

"Exactly. Not you," Newkirk said.

"Yeah but, if I'd seen that you were down, I would've stopped, and maybe the colonel and I could've gotten you back sooner and you might not have gone into shock, and—"

"Andrew…stop," Newkirk said. "There's no sense in beatin' yourself up. I'm alive, mate."

"Yeah, but…"

"Andrew!"

Carter sighed, fidgeting.

Newkirk studied him for a minute. "What can I say ta make ya understand?"

Carter was silent for a minute. "Say you forgive me?"

"What!" Newkirk stared at him, shocked at the ridiculous question. He opened his mouth to tell him how insane the idea was, before he saw the truly upset expression on Carter's face. He closed his eyes and shook his head, before suddenly losing the battle to hold in the cough.

Carter poured him a glass of water, and handed it to him, watching worriedly as he drank it.

Newkirk handed the glass back, and after Carter put it on the table, he grabbed the American's arm.

Carter looked at him, askance.

Newkirk knew that he needed to choose his words carefully. However ridiculous he thought Carter's notion to be, this situation was much too delicate for Newkirk to dismiss his friend's feelings or say something customarily sarcastic. "Andrew, listen ta me. There is nothin' for me ta forgive ya for," he said. "Nothin'. But if it will make ya stop this, I'll say it. I forgive ya."

Carter closed his eyes with a relieved sigh before looking back at him. "Thanks."

Newkirk smiled and let go of his arm. A few seconds passed in silence as he tried to think up a way to change the subject. "I think I figured out where I caught these bloody measles from."

Carter's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

Newkirk nodded. "When you an' I went ta that Gestapo post ta try to rescue Becker*, remember when we got that blasted flat tire on the way back…"

_Newkirk sighed as Carter dug through the trunk of their acquired staff car, trying to find their tire iron. He knew that Hogan would worry when they weren't back on time, but when was a flat tire ever planned? He suddenly felt something tug on the bottom of his Gestapo jacket, and looked towards the ground._

_A small boy no older than three stood looking up at him._

_'What on earth?' Newkirk thought. The child said something to him in German, but he spoke too softly, so Newkirk knelt in front of him and took hold of his arm. "Was es ist?" he asked._

_"Wo Mamma ist," the boy sniffled. _

_Newkirk sighed. 'Great, 'e can't find 'is mum, an' ran ta the first German bobby 'e could find.' He took the boy's hand and stood, looking down the street, which had many people walking up and down it as they attended the nearby marketplace._

_The little boy sneezed, rubbing his hand across his face._

_"Carter!" Newkirk called, seeing his friend pop his head out of the trunk. He motioned to the child beside him, before pointing at the nearby crowd of people._

_The American sergeant looked concerned, not wanting Newkirk to go off alone—after all, they were escaped POW's impersonating Germans!—but before he could say anything, Newkirk had lifted the boy and walked off._

_Newkirk couldn't believe that a woman would let herself lose track of such a young child. The boy wrapped his arms around Newkirk's neck and sniffled into the front of his jacket._

_Suddenly, a voice yelled. "Was Sie sind, der mit meinem Sohn macht!"_

_'What am I doin' with your son?' Newkirk thought. 'Eh, 'ow about stoppin' 'em from possibly bein' kidnapped!'_

_A young woman ran into his line of sight and stopped in front of him, realizing that he wore an SS uniform. She paled._

_"Sie sollten Ihrem Sohn mehr vorsichtig zuschauen," he said, telling her to watch her son more carefully._

_She nodded and reached out for the boy, who sneezed again as Newkirk passed him over._

_"Vielen Dank," she said, using the formal version of 'thank you'._

_Newkirk nodded and walked back to the car, wondering what this world was coming to…_

"So that poor kid had measles, and gave it to you!" Carter said.

Newkirk shrugged with his good arm. "Well, 'e sneezed on me three times, so it seems pretty obvious ta me."

"Crazy," said Carter. "What are the chances we'd get a flat tire at the same time a kid would lose his mother—in the same _place_ as us—and then ask _you_ for help, and give you measles!" He blinked. "What are the chances that you never even _had_ it, and would be exposed on the very night we have a new mission…heh, what are the chances of us getting a flat tire in the first place—!"

Newkirk closed his eyes, wondering when Carter ever took a breath. "Andrew!!"

Carter closed his mouth. "Oh. Sorry."

At that moment, Hogan and the others walked into the room, looking grim.

"What's wrong?" Carter asked.

Hogan sighed. "We have a new mission…and we can't do it without you, Newkirk."

"What?" said Carter. "He's in no shape to even get out of bed!"

"I know," Hogan replied, before looking at Newkirk. "But we really have no choice. They wanted it done tonight, but I told them you've been sick and managed to put them off until tomorrow night instead."

"What's the mission?" Newkirk asked.

Hogan sat on the side of his bunk. "We're getting another crack at whatever was supposed to be in that telephone pole. Apparently a General Klein will be staying at the Hammelberg Hotel, and whatever was in that safe is now in the safe inside his room. He'll be there until the day after tomorrow."

Everyone looked at Newkirk, wondering what he'd say.

"I'll do it," Newkirk said. "I'd love ta see what was worth gettin' shot an' breakin' me arm for. It's been pretty disappointin' ta go through all this for nothin'."

LeBeau chuckled.

Hogan smiled and looked at his watch. "It's late; you need sleep. We'll see how you are tomorrow…I really don't like the idea of you doing this. You're nowhere near recovered, which isn't just bad for _you_…it also makes you a liability to the rest of us."

Newkirk knew that to be true, but he also knew that they couldn't refuse an order from London.

"But we can't refuse an order from London," Hogan said, as if knowing his thoughts. "Believe me, I tried. Whatever is in that safe is _so_ important, that they can't even say it over the radio."

Everyone was silent for a minute, realizing the magnitude of the situation. For all they knew, whatever it was could end the war!

"Don't worry 'bout me, guv," Newkirk said. "I'll be all right."

Hogan sighed. "You better be."

TBC

* 'The Rise and Fall of Sergeant Schultz', season 2, episode 6.


	17. PreMission Jitters

Newkirk didn't sleep well that night, feeling a nervous anticipation in his stomach at the thought of going on this mission…Hogan was right that he'd be a liability, and he was terrified at the thought of one of his friends getting hurt because of him. In the majority of their missions, they'd come back unscathed, but if not, any injuries were usually minor. Getting shot the week before had opened his eyes…if the bullet had been mere inches to the right, he'd be dead.

"Hey? You're up?" he suddenly heard.

Opening his eyes, he found Carter kneeling beside the bunk. "Yeah."

"We just had roll call," the American said. "I'm surprised you're awake so early."

Newkirk sighed when he heard that, hoping that he'd gotten more sleep than that.

Carter frowned. "Is something wrong? Is your arm worse? I'll go get the Colonel—"

"Andrew, wait," Newkirk said, reaching out to grab his arm.

"What is it?" Carter asked, concerned.

"Are ya comin' on the mission?"

Carter nodded.

Newkirk sighed again. "Listen, mate…oh, 'ow am I supposed ta say this?" He closed his eyes for a second, before reopening them. "I dunno what's gonna 'appen tonight…I don't want ya ta get 'urt."

"Is this about the Colonel saying that you could be a liability to us?" Carter asked.

Newkirk nodded.

"Don't worry about that, buddy. Kinch is coming too, with Colonel Hogan's strict instructions to do nothing but protect you."

Newkirk had mixed feelings about that. He was touched at everyone's concern, but he _did_ have his pride. "Well, make sure ya leave it ta Kinch then, if somethin' goes wrong," he said, squeezing his arm.

Carter sighed, not answering.

Newkirk let go of him and pushed the covers back, slowly sitting up.

"What are you doing?" Carter asked.

Newkirk blinked. "If I'm gonna go on a mission tonight, I think it'd be a good idea ta see 'ow mobile I am!"

Carter knew that he was right. "Okay." He put a hand on his friend's good arm and helped him scoot to the edge of the bed.

Newkirk sat there for a minute, feeling weak and lightheaded. His lungs protested the motion, and he couldn't hold in a coughing fit.

Carter felt his forehead. "Most of the fever is finally gone. You're barely warm."

Newkirk rubbed his eyes with his right hand. "I can only _imagine_ what I look like."

Carter made a face as if he was thinking. "No comment," he said.

Newkirk looked at him, shocked.

Carter chuckled and patted his shoulder.

"Blimey," Newkirk said, shaking his head. "The kid's learnin'." He stood up from the bunk and was surprised to find his legs wobbly.

Carter took his arm, making sure he could keep his balance.

"I'm okay," Newkirk said, relieved when he didn't get _too_ dizzy. He unconsciously held his injured arm as he took a few steps, finally sitting in the chair near the table.

"How do you feel?" Carter asked, worried.

"I've been worse," he answered. _But I've also been better, _he thought. He shivered, not used to being out from under the covers.

Carter grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around him. "Are you staying in here, or do you want to eat breakfast with us? LeBeau's cooking…he managed to finagle some eggs from Schultz."

"I'll come out," Newkirk said. "I gotta get used ta walkin' around again."

Carter nodded and helped him up, keeping a supportive arm around his back as they walked out of the room.

"Hey! Look who's up!" LeBeau's voice exclaimed.

Newkirk smiled as he shuffled over to the table. "I feel like I've been in there for a month."

"Eight days," Carter said, helping him sit down. He sighed. "It's been eight days."

Newkirk shook his head, still unable to believe what had happened to him. He looked at Hogan. "Thanks, Colonel, for lettin' me use ya room. I 'ope I don't end up leavin' it too much of a mess."

Hogan smiled and slapped his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Newkirk. You sure you're up to this mission?"

"I'll be fine, guv."

Hogan noticed that he didn't really answer his question, but said nothing.

LeBeau came over with a pan and started dishing out the eggs, filling Newkirk's plate first.

The delicious aroma wafted up to Newkirk's nose, and his stomach growled for the first time in a week. He grabbed a fork and dug in, stopping only to sprinkle on more salt, which made LeBeau playfully balk.

After the dishes were cleared away, Hogan stayed where he sat and studied the Englishman. Everyone else got up and wandered away, going outside, as if it'd been planned…which Newkirk knew it likely was.

"How do you feel?" the colonel asked once everyone had left. "I mean, _really_ feel."

"Wonders better than I was," Newkirk answered. "No more sore throat, an' me 'ead only aches a little. Me arm doesn't 'urt anywhere near as bad as it did."

"What about your lungs?" Hogan asked.

_Uh oh…'ow did 'e know?_ Newkirk wondered. "I'm not coughin' as much."

"That's not what I asked."

Newkirk sighed, which made his lungs spasm. He couldn't answer for a few seconds as he tried to swallow the coughing reflex. "They're…" He had to clear his throat. "Fine."

Hogan sighed, choosing not to contradict him. "All five of us are going on this mission. Ordinarily it would just be you and me, but you're nowhere near up to par, so I included Kinch with the sole responsibility of protecting you. That makes _him_ vulnerable too, as his main purpose will be getting you away from danger if something goes wrong, so it'll be up to me, Carter, and LeBeau to cover you both and deal with the situation."

Newkirk nodded, already getting more nervous. "I don't want anythin' ta 'appen ta one of ya because of me, guv," he said.

Hogan nodded. "I know. Don't worry about it; just open the safe and get whatever's in there. Leave the rest to us."

Newkirk sighed, forgetting to hold it in, and started coughing, which he really didn't want to do in front of the colonel after telling him that his lungs were 'fine'.

Hogan seemed to expect it, reaching for Newkirk's glass and filling it with water from the nearby pitcher. He set it down in front of the Englishman and watched as he drank it.

Newkirk drank the whole thing down, stopping in the middle to take a breath. He hated how winded he became after coughing, and wondered how long it would last. Days? Weeks? He wouldn't be much use to _anyone_ for a while...between that and his broken arm.

"You should get some more rest," Hogan said, concerned to see that he didn't get his breath back very quickly.

Newkirk nodded, saying nothing.

The fact that the Englishman hadn't protested was enough to show Hogan that he still wasn't feeling well. He stood and helped Newkirk up, taking him back into his quarters and sitting him on the bottom bunk. He felt his forehead before gently pushing him to lie down. "Stay here and sleep. We'll wake you for lunch."

"Okay," Newkirk mumbled, already drifting off.

Hogan watched him for a minute, before sighing noiselessly and tiptoeing out the door.

TBC


	18. Second Chance

Newkirk wasn't hungry for lunch, so he continued to rest, sleeping on and off all day, hoping that he'd have the strength to go through with their new mission. Hogan hadn't gone over the details with him yet, but he desperately hoped that they weren't _walking_ to the Hammelberg Hotel.

Suppertime came quickly, after he unexpectedly slept for four hours straight. Carter woke him and helped him into the outer room, where they ate and went down into the tunnels for uniforms.

"I didn't know we were gonna do this so early," Newkirk said, as Carter carefully helped him put his left arm in a coat sleeve. He needed to wear a shirt and jacket that were a size bigger than usual to accommodate the cast.

"I planned it this way on purpose," said Hogan. "Apparently Klein is meeting some top-notch Germans for dinner…which means that his room will be empty."

Newkirk nodded and held his injured arm out of the way as Carter buckled a belt over his black SS jacket.

"You're all set," the American said, smiling as he plopped a German hat onto his head.

Newkirk smiled back. "Thanks, mate," he replied, sitting in a nearby chair.

Carter grabbed his friend's sling and looped it around his neck, helping him settle his arm in it before donning his own uniform.

Soon, they were climbing up the ladder leading to the tree stump. Hogan climbed out first, closing the top and crouching on the ground, looking to make sure there were no German patrols in sight. Seeing none, he reopened the stump and helped Newkirk climb out.

Once they were all outside the tunnel, they quickly made their way over to a parked staff car just off the road.

Newkirk didn't bother asking where they got it. He simply got in and rested his head back against the seat, trying—and not succeeding—to hold in a cough.

Hogan turned around from the driver's seat to look at him. "You okay?"

Newkirk, still coughing, could do nothing but nod.

Hogan inwardly cursed the person who'd decided on this mission as he drove off.

Newkirk, seated between Carter and Kinch, dozed off during the ride, which took no more than ten minutes. When they arrived at the hotel, they woke him up and went inside.

Carter took charge once in they were in the hotel, his accent being much better than Hogan's. "Have you seen zis man?" he asked the German at the front desk, flashing a picture too fast for the man to really see it. "No? I vant to see zee register!"

The deskman, afraid of the SS just like everyone else, wordlessly handed it over.

"Aha!" Carter exclaimed, pointing excitedly at one of the pages.

The man jumped. "Vhat? Vhat?"

"His name is not on zis," Carter shrugged. "Oh vell, I shall search zis hotel anyvay! Danke!" With that, he walked off, with everyone following.

Kinch, hardly ever getting a chance to get out of camp and see the guys in action, couldn't help but chuckle, extremely amused at Carter's performance. "Is that what you guys do?" he whispered. "Scare the daylights out of people while performing a comedy routine?"

Carter's face changed from a stern German expression, to that of an innocent American boy. "We sure do, and boy is it fun!"

"Shhh!" Hogan said. "What room are we looking for, Carter?"

"Oh. Room 126."

Everyone looked at the next doors that they passed…132, 134…

"Oops," said Carter.

They all turned around and headed back the way they came, stopping at 126.

"Newkirk," Hogan said, gesturing at the doorknob.

The Englishman knelt and took a lock-pick out of his pocket, quickly sticking it into the hole as LeBeau and Carter kept a lookout at either end of the hallway. Within seconds, he had it open.

Hogan quietly opened the door a crack, seeing that it was completely dark inside. He turned on the lights, and they all entered the room, quickly closing the door.

The safe wasn't visible, so they spread out.

"Colonel, it's in the bedroom," Kinch called out.

They all followed, shutting off the lights again and using just a flashlight.

LeBeau stood at the doorway, keeping watch for Klein.

Newkirk knelt before the safe with Carter holding the flashlight. Hogan stood between them and LeBeau, gun ready, and Kinch hovered over Newkirk, aware they he might have to get the injured corporal out of there in a hurry.

Newkirk was annoyed to see that he'd need his stethoscope yet again, and gestured for Carter—who was holding it—to give it to him. He stuck the ends into his ears one-handed, and Carter held the other end against the safe for him, since he only had one usable arm.

Hogan felt a sense of déjà vu, seeing how similar this was to the night that they cracked the safe on the telephone pole…he desperately hoped that this mission wouldn't have a similar _outcome_, too.

Suddenly, they heard a door open.

Lightning fast, Newkirk felt an arm wrap around his stomach and yank him away from the safe. He suddenly found himself standing behind the curtains, with Kinch holding him there. He desperately needed to cough…the breath had been knocked clear out of him when Kinch had grabbed him so suddenly.

The light came on in the room, and they could hear someone walking around.

Newkirk's heart was pounding and he held the breath that he didn't have. His lungs were aching to breathe, but he knew that he'd cough his brains out the minute he opened his mouth. He started feeling dizzy from oxygen deprivation, and wondered if he was about to unintentionally smother himself to death.

Finally, the light went off, and they heard the door to the hotel room open and close again. Newkirk stayed where he was, waiting for Hogan to tell them it was safe.

"Okay, guys," he heard.

Newkirk stumbled out from the curtain, gasping in a breath and finally giving in to his lungs' demand to cough.

The others were startled, and crowded around worriedly, as Newkirk heavily sat on the bed.

"Get him some water," Hogan told Carter, who ran to comply. "LeBeau," he said, motioning towards the door.

The Frenchman understood exactly what he wanted, and he ran out the hotel door, obviously to make sure that Klein wouldn't surprise them again.

Carter handed Newkirk a glass and he gratefully drank it, handing it back. He continued to cough for another few seconds, before finally trying just to _breathe_. He wheezed audibly when he tried to take a deep breath, and coughed again.

"You sound just like a cousin I have. He had asthma when we were kids," said Carter, sitting beside him.

Hogan and Kinch exchanged a look over their heads.

"I'm fine," Newkirk said, his voice sounding hoarse. He inhaled more slowly this time. "I'm fine."

Everyone watched as he tried to catch his breath, and finally, Newkirk stood and approached the safe again. Carter helped with the stethoscope, and Newkirk worked on opening it.

The time couldn't go by fast enough for Hogan, who wanted to get whatever was in the safe and get _out_ of there. He knew that Newkirk wasn't well enough yet to come along, and he vowed that if _this_ safe was empty too, London was going to get an earful.

A sudden click sounded, and the safe was open.

Hogan knelt and patted Newkirk's shoulder. Despite his condition, the Englishman had managed to come through. "Newkirk, you're amazing. Have I ever told you that?"

Newkirk looked at him and smiled. "Thanks, Colonel. I certainly try me best."

"You sure do," said Carter, reaching inside and taking out a huge, thick envelope. "I've got something here!"

Hogan shined the flashlight inside and found that the safe was otherwise empty. "We'll look at it later. Let's go!"

Kinch, aware that the danger still wasn't over, helped Newkirk up and stuck close to him as they left the room.

They headed down the stairs and through the lobby, stopping near the front desk when a small crowd of people passed by in front of them.

A German officer was speaking to the man behind the counter, and he turned around and accidentally bumped into someone.

Hogan turned when he heard Newkirk give a cry of pain, and found him hugging his broken limb, while a concerned stranger had a hand on his good arm as if making sure he remained upright.

It was General Klein.

Newkirk's face had dramatically paled from the sudden jolt of pain, so Hogan quickly stepped in, looking at Klein with an angry expression, glad that he was wearing a General's uniform himself. "This man has just returned from volunteering for the Russian Front! He barely escaped with his life, and I demand that he be treated with respect!"

"It vas an accident, General," Klein said, letting go of Newkirk's shoulder. "I deeply apologize, Captain!" he said, reading the insignia on Newkirk's jacket.

Unable to speak from the waves of pain that traveled up and down his arm, Newkirk merely nodded.

"Is there anything I can do?" Klein asked.

"No, General Klein, you have done enough!" said Hogan, taking Newkirk's good arm and leaving the lobby.

Klein watched them go before heading back up to his room, stopping halfway up the stairs when he wondered how a man that he'd never met before had somehow known his name.

Hogan and the others quickly walked back to their car and climbed in.

"You okay?" Carter asked Newkirk, who closed his eyes the minute he was seated.

"Yeah," Newkirk said, not opening his eyes.

Hogan started up the car and quickly pulled out, relieved that the mission was finished.

Carter suddenly remembered the envelope that they'd found in the safe, and took it out of his jacket. He turned on the flashlight again and shined it on the papers, before his mouth suddenly opened and closed like a fish. "Oh my gosh…this is…_Colonel_!"

"What!"

"You're not gonna believe this! None of you are! _I_ don't believe it!"

"What is it, Carter?"

"I mean, what are the chances—!"

"CARTER!"

"Oh…sorry! Colonel, this is…this is the schematic of the tunnels underneath Hitler's command center!"

Hogan almost jammed on the brakes in shock.

"What?!" LeBeau and Kinch exclaimed at the same time.

Newkirk reopened his eyes and peered over, shocked himself. "Are ya serious?"

Carter nodded. "Look!" He flipped through the pages. "Everything's here! He has just as many tunnels as _we_ do!"

"No wonder London said it was so vital," said Kinch, his voice sounding awed.

"And no wonder it's so hard to bump him _off_," said LeBeau. "The coward likes to hide."

"Can't say I'm surprised," said Hogan. "But what a find we have here!"

"You can say _that_ again!" said Carter, still reading the schematics.

Newkirk suddenly looked at Carter. "Wait a minute," he said. "What 'appened ta those three men that were in the tunnels waitin' ta take these papers back ta London?"

"We sent them back without them," said Hogan. "When the pole safe came up empty, we didn't think we'd get another chance."

"Oh," said Newkirk. "So who's gonna get them ta London _now_?"

"We'll have to hold onto them until they send someone to come get them," Hogan said.

"They'll probably have _us _take them to _someone_, you mean," said LeBeau.

"I don't care _how_ they do it, as long as London gets them, _fast_," said Hogan.

"Boy, can you imagine?" said Carter. "They can go bomb his compound…what an explosion that will be! Pow, boom, pchew!"

"Calm yaself, Andrew," Newkirk said, closing his eyes again. "Ya crazy side is showin'."

Carter chuckled. Just then, Hogan went over a bump in the road, and his arm knocked against Newkirk's cast.

"Ohhh, _blimey_…" the Englishman moaned.

Carter was mortified. "Sorry! Colonel, watch those bumps!"

Hogan winced. "Sorry, Newkirk."

With a sigh, Newkirk slouched in his seat, hoping that he'd get back to the stalag in one piece.

A few minutes later, they arrived. Hogan parked the car in the same place, and they walked the rest of the way to the stump, quickly climbing down the ladder.

By the time he stepped down into the tunnel, Newkirk was exhausted. He practically stumbled over to the nearby bench and collapsed onto it, eyes closed, breathing heavily and coughing yet again.

A few seconds later, someone tugged on his jacket belt and loosened it, pulling it off and dropping it onto the floor, before undoing the buttons on his coat.

Opening his eyes, he found that Hogan had reached him before Carter.

"Hey," Hogan said, looking concerned. "How do you feel?"

There were a _lot_ of answers to that question, so Newkirk chose the most consuming one. "Tired," he said, closing his eyes again as Carter reached them.

The two men helped Newkirk with the uniform and got him up into the barracks, putting him back to bed in Hogan's quarters, where he fell asleep quickly.

Carter felt the Englishman's forehead, not liking how pale he'd become. "Oh no…he's warm again!"

Hogan felt for himself. "Just a little. I'm not surprised…he wasn't fit for tonight."

"I'll stay with him," Carter said.

Hogan nodded, patting the sergeant's shoulder. "He'll be fine." With that, he left and went back into the tunnel, to let London know that their mission had finally been accomplished.

TBC


	19. After the War

Newkirk slept well into the next day, not waking until early afternoon. He was surprised at that, but grateful to have gotten such a long sleep. He was getting used to not joining roll call, and really wasn't looking forward to participating in it again.

Right after he'd eaten a late lunch, Klink came to check on him. He was glad that he didn't have to hide his broken arm anymore, so he concentrated on merely looking as sick as he could. Coincidentally, he had a coughing fit just as the Kommandant was coming into the room, with Hogan beside him.

Klink seemed afraid to come further than the doorway.

"It's okay, Colonel," Hogan reminded him. "He's not contagious, or the whole _camp_ would be sick by now."

Klink came further into the room and stood beside the bunk, studying Newkirk as if still wondering if there was some trick involved.

Newkirk continued to cough, making it last longer on purpose. Slouching limply, he closed his eyes and reopened them slowly, looking up at Klink miserably. "Ohh…'ello, Kommandant," he said, sounding weak. "An' 'ow…are ya…today?"

Klink, so gullible and yes, _human_, couldn't help but be sympathetic. He looked at Hogan in shock. "How am _I_, he asks!" He shook his head, looking at Newkirk again. "You're right, Hogan, he still isn't fit for roll call."

Hogan shook his head. "He really had a number done on his lungs," he said, not even having to lie. "It's not a good idea for him to stand outside and breathe the cold air."

"Yes, I can see that," Klink replied. He studied Newkirk for another minute, who'd closed his eyes and was purposely breathing with difficulty, coughing here and there. "Is there anything he needs?"

The American colonel shrugged. "Better food would certainly help…he can't get his strength back on the gruel that the mess hall serves! Beyond that, I'm not sure. If I come up with something, I'll definitely let you know."

"Humm, better food…all right," Klink agreed, thinking himself that the corporal was looking too thin. "If you want to make a list—a _reasonable_ one," he said, shaking his finger. "I'll have Schultz go to the town market."

"Great!" said Hogan.

Klink looked at Newkirk one more time, before turning to walk out.

"Kommandant?" the Englishman called.

Klink turned. "Yes?"

Newkirk motioned for him to come closer, as if he wasn't strong enough to talk loudly.

Klink did, leaning over him with a puzzled frown.

"I jus' wanted ta say…" Newkirk whispered, closing his eyes again. "That if I don't make it…I really enjoyed me stay here."

Klink's jaw dropped. "You _did_?"

Newkirk nodded. "You're…the best…Kommandant…a prisoner…could 'ave."

Klink closed his mouth and reopened it again, in shock, before looking at Hogan with a grin. "Did you hear that, Hogan? He said that I'm the best Kommandant a prisoner could have!" His face suddenly registered awe. "No wonder there aren't many attempts to escape! The prisoners _like_ me!"

Hogan went along with it. "I've told you before, Colonel, you're a father figure to them!"

Klink looked at Newkirk again, who had his eyes squeezed shut as if he were in pain. "Corporal Newkirk?" he said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm…fine," the Englishman answered in a tiny voice, which contradicted his statement.

Klink, with Newkirk's 'praise' having instantly gone to his head, patted the sick man's arm. "Don't worry, Corporal, I'll make sure that you have everything you need to keep yourself comfortable while you recover! Hogan, make the list! I'll send Schultz here right away to get it."

Hogan nodded, giving him the most grateful look he could. "Thanks, Kommandant, this really means a lot to us!" He theatrically sniffed. "It could mean the difference between life and death for our friend!"

Klink stood and straightened his coat, holding his head up high. "Do not thank me! That is what a good Kommandant and father figure does for the people under his charge!" He stuck his riding crop under his arm, and walked out the door.

Carter had been standing in the doorway and witnessed the whole thing. As soon as Klink left the barracks and was gone, the American sergeant ran over to the bunk and threw himself to his knees, grabbing Newkirk's good arm. "That was the best performance you've ever done!" he said, laughing. "You deserve an Oscar!"

Newkirk was laughing too, but it naturally made him cough.

Hogan shook his head, unable to resist smiling. "He's right. You should give acting lessons, Newkirk."

Newkirk was laugh-coughing almost too much to reply. "Maybe I _will_…after…the war…!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Klink was true to his word. Schultz was immediately sent to the closest market, and came back with everything that Hogan had put on the list.

LeBeau was thrilled, relishing the chance to cook all kinds of goodies.

Newkirk recovered steadily, the most annoying thing being the lingering cough. Hogan witnessed a particularly bad coughing fit—which happened less often as the days passed—and was alarmed when Newkirk seemed unable to catch his breath. He remembered what Carter had said about his asthmatic cousin, and asked Newkirk if he, by any chance, had ever suffered the same malady.

"Ya found me out, Colonel," Newkirk had answered, once he had enough breath to do so. "Me lungs were pretty bad when I was growin' up. I missed school a lot…maybe that's why I never managed ta catch measles until now!"

Hogan nodded. "I bet you're right about that, Newkirk. But in the years that we've been here, I never noticed you have any difficulty breathing."

Newkirk shrugged. "I always managed ta 'ide it."

Hogan frowned, upset to hear that.

"No no, guv," Newkirk said. "I grew out of it, as they say. I've been fine for years…I only have a little trouble if I get a cold in me lungs."

Hogan pursed his lips. Now that he thought about it, whenever Newkirk caught a cold, he always had a lingering cough that drove the men in the barracks crazy at night. "What about our missions? All the walking and running?"

Newkirk shook his head. "I'm usually fine. Like ya said…ya never noticed anythin'. That's because there was never anythin' worth noticin'. If I get too winded, I always catch me breath. It just might take me a little longer sometimes."

Hogan was still visibly concerned.

Newkirk realized that he should've kept his mouth shut. "Colonel…we've been 'ere for almost three years. I've 'andled every mission without a problem…regardin' me lungs, I mean," he said, with a smile.

Hogan sighed. "I guess I can't argue that. If you ever have difficulty, you'll let me know, right?"

Newkirk nodded. "But I'm tellin' ya, sir, it sounds worse than it is. I've been fine for years." He shrugged. "I even smoke."

Hogan shook his head. "And how did someone with weak lungs ever start a habit like _that,_ anyway?"

Newkirk gave him a sheepish look. "Stupidity."

"You haven't smoked a single cigarette since you got sick—" said Hogan.

Newkirk cut him off. "I 'aven't 'ad enough _air_..."

"...so you should take this opportunity to quit," Hogan continued.

Newkirk sighed, which made him cough again. "I'd never succeed in tryin' that now, guv...not while still a prisoner 'ere. It's become a nervous 'abit, it 'as..."

Hogan couldn't blame him there, especially with how often they risked their lives on dangerous missions.

"I will, someday soon, that I promise ya, guv. This 'as opened me eyes somewhat," Newkirk said, touching his chest. "I know it wasn't a good sign 'ow bad this affected me lungs...if I didn't smoke, it probably wouldn't 'ave been so bad."

Hogan nodded his agreement. "That's probably true. I'll hold you to that promise."

The conversation ended there, but Newkirk had a feeling that it might come up again sometime in the future.

Finally, on the fifteenth day since the mission that had gotten Newkirk shot, the Englishman decided that he could return to his own bunk. He'd regained some of his strength, and didn't want to get in the colonel's way any longer. "I bet you'll be glad ta 'ave ya room back," he said.

"I don't mind that you needed it," Hogan said. "But yes, I have to admit that I do!"

Newkirk chuckled and sat at their table, grabbing the coffeepot.

Everyone was overjoyed to see him almost back to normal.

"We were just discussing what we might do after the war," Carter told him, excitedly. "What do _you_ plan to do?"

Newkirk paused with his coffee cup halfway to his lips. "After the war? I dunno. No one should plan for somethin' like that, Andrew, when so much can 'appen between now an' then."

"So you have no idea?"

"What, ya want me ta pick somethin' right now? Fine…uh…'ow about I move ta the States an' become a ruddy game show host, for all I care."

LeBeau laughed. "You could _never_ do a job like that. You'd definitely be a great actor, but not a game show host. You haven't got the personality for it."

Carter chuckled. "I think he'd be perfect."

Newkirk blinked. "I'm not sure which one of ya just insulted me."

Everyone laughed.

"And what would you call your game show, Newkirk?" Kinch asked.

"Well, come on, I 'aven't 'ad, what, a _minute _ta think about it?" Newkirk said, before his face suddenly dawned with inspiration. "Blimey! I just 'ad an idea! I could 'ave families come on the show an' answer questions, an' the family what answer the most of 'em right, is the winner! An' I'll name it 'Family Feud'!"

LeBeau was surprised. "How'd you think all that up so fast?"

"I dunno," Newkirk answered, baffled. "It just popped into me 'ead."

"Wow," said Carter, excitedly. "Maybe it's meant to be!"

Everyone looked at each other for a minute.

"Nah," they all said.

TBC


	20. That's What Friends Are For

The next two weeks passed quickly, and Newkirk finally rejoined roll call. He'd regained most of his strength, and didn't cough quite as often. Hogan watched him like a hawk, ensuring that the Englishman had been telling the truth about his lungs. He saw nothing to contradict what he'd been told, and was immensely relieved.

Winter came to Germany with a vengeance, and Hogan asked Klink if role call could be an hour later in the morning, and if they could have enough firewood to keep the stove lit at night. He reminded Klink of Newkirk's 'best Kommandant a prisoner could have' statement, and within an hour, they had a pile of firewood in the corner of the hut.

Newkirk was relieved about the later roll call—the whole camp was—and it was nice to wake up to the smell of LeBeau's breakfast, instead of the sound of Schultz barging in the door. He was confused though to find a pile of blankets covering him, and realized that the empty bunks weren't just missing their awakened occupants. The same thing continued to happen every morning, and he was inwardly touched.

The nasty pain in Newkirk's broken arm finally diminished, being replaced with a dull ache, especially if he tried to do too much with it. He eventually ditched the sling and was able to do simple things with his hand, but when Wilson caught him making snowballs one day, he'd gone crazy and threatened to leave the cast on for two extra weeks if he didn't immediately stop it.

"Did ya see that?" Newkirk complained to Carter, even as he made another snowball. "I thought 'e would bite me 'ead off! 'e threw an eppy, 'e did!"

Carter blinked. "He threw a…he what?"

"Threw an eppy; means he 'flipped out'," Newkirk said. He then promptly picked up the snowball…in the hand on his _good_ arm…and threw it towards Wilson, who had his back towards them. The medic walked away from his spot a second before the snowball would've hit him, and Carter cracked up laughing.

Finally, the day came when Wilson finally heeded Newkirk's begging to remove the cast. It was a day prior to six weeks, and he followed Wilson around for an hour until he finally agreed.

"All right, all right!" Wilson said. "I'll get my supplies and meet you in your barracks."

"Can we do it somewhere else?" Newkirk said. "I don't want anyone ta know. Let's see 'ow long it takes 'em ta notice."

Wilson nodded. "Fine, fine."

And so, an hour later, Newkirk left the kitchen of the mess hall cast-free, and strutted back towards the barracks, walking inside and taking off his coat.

Most of the men were playing cards, checkers, or eating some of LeBeau's strudel. Schultz was in there, warming up near the stove.

"Newkirk!" the guard exclaimed. "Your cast is gone!"

The Englishman smiled, thinking it hilarious that he was the first one to spot it.

Carter jumped up. "All right! How does it feel? Can I see?"

Everyone crowded around as Newkirk sat at the table and pulled up the sleeve of his sweater. His skin looked dry where the cast had sat, and the bullet scars on both sides of his arm were plainly visible.

"How weak is it?" Hogan asked. "I imagine it'll take some time for your arm to get back to normal?"

Newkirk nodded, putting the sleeve back down and smoothing it. "Wilson told me ta find somethin' that weighs a few pounds an' do exercises with it, ta build the strength back up."

"Here!" said Schultz. "You can use my helmet!" He took it off and put it down in front of Newkirk, making everyone laugh.

"Aw, thanks, Schultzie," the Englishman said. "But I don't think ol' Klink would like that."

"True," said the German, putting his hat back on.

"I'm sure we'll find something," said Hogan.

LeBeau got up from the table and started looking around, followed by Kinch.

Schultz finished drinking his coffee and placed the empty mug on the table. "I should get back to my post before Big Shot finds out how long I've been in here. Newkirk, I am very glad that your arm is okay now!"

"Thanks," Newkirk said with a smile.

Schultz smiled back and left.

Newkirk and Carter were the only ones left sitting at the table, and the American smiled. "Boy must you be relieved."

The Englishman nodded and flexed his arm. "Ya 'ave no idea 'ow good it feels for me arm ta be free!"

"I'll bet!"

Newkirk was quiet for a minute, looking as if he couldn't put his thoughts into words. "Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I say 'thank you' yet?"

Carter frowned. "For what?"

"For takin' care of me that whole time. I think ya did a better job than me own mum could've done."

Carter smiled. "That's what friends are for, buddy!"

Newkirk smiled back and drank some coffee.

"What happened to the cast?" Carter suddenly asked.

"Wilson 'ad ta soak it in order ta remove it," said Newkirk. "It 'ad ta fall apart in order ta come off."

Carter frowned. "So it's all gone?"

Newkirk nodded.

"Oh," Carter said, seeming upset. "Everyone's signatures were on it! What a shame."

Newkirk picked up his coat, which lay beside him, and stuck his hand into the pocket. "They're not _all_ gone, mate."

Carter's eyebrows shot up and he reached out to take what Newkirk was holding.

It was the piece of the cast with Carter's get-well message.

"That was the _one_ spot that didn't get wet, somehow," said Newkirk, smiling. "I _think_ I might 'ave just enough room for it in me foot locker…"

Carter's face split into a wide grin.

THE END

Thank you, everyone, for your reviews! This story was a blast to write! Stay tuned for more stories by me...I have a bunch of them! LOL! ;)


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